


The Night. The Gate. The Never.

by depresane



Series: Vissenvaib the Gorion's Blunderer [4]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms, Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Ableism, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Autism Spectrum, Blood and Injury, Chases, Cockatrices, Decapitation, Drowning, Dryads - Freeform, F/F, Fictional Religion & Theology, Game Spoilers, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hearing Voices, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Torture, Invasion of Privacy, LGBTQ Themes, Magic, Mental Meltdown, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Sewers, Slurs, Stress Relief, Suicide, Swearing, Torture, Violence, argueing, mentioned slavery, religious distrust, religious doubt, sewer level
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 02:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depresane/pseuds/depresane
Summary: Vissenvaib of Candlekeep and her party is unexpectedly teleported miles away from Baldur's Gate. Soon she learns where exactly she is – and how much time has passed. She can only accept her new situation and answer Aribeth's call for help. But her nighttime visions continue, warning her about a powerful and dangerous sadist. The quantity of problems and threats will overwhelm the Gorion's Ward, making her reject her old lessons and disobey the Lord of Neverwinter. Will Vissenvaib's companions abandon her? Whose voice is talking in Aribeth's mind? Which deity will interfere in an inevitable battle?This crossover story will spoil the important plot points of BG, the sequel, and Neverwinter Nights.EDIT: Thank you very much for 200 views.You don't have to be familiar with Neverwinter Nights to read this fic. I will warn you when the spoilers for NWN begin. The spoilers for BG start pretty much from the middle of Chapter One.





	1. How have we even gotten here??

**Author's Note:**

> The following fictional story is fanmade. I am not associated with BioWare or Wizards of the Coast.  
> This project can and will be inaccurate in terms of the Faerûn lore. I am not here to write my Master’s thesis; I am here to play with my favourite media.  
> My protagonist of Baldur’s Gate is not as clever as her name suggests, and it’s a result of my own incompetence as a gamer when I was playing the campaign. Her carnation is unrelated to her intelligence. Still, I acknowledge the problematic nature of her characteristics.

### How have we even gotten here??

Night had fallen gently on the city of Baldur’s Gate. Taverns filled up with workers seeking relief in fermented beverage. Merchants prepared keys, ready to close their shops and join the drunk crowds. They waited. They knew. There is always that one customer who dashes through doorframe at the very last moment.  
And indeed, six silhouettes were running in panic, their weapons clashing against their clothes. A lady of the night service pointed to her left, showing them a way to the closest store.  
“Our gratitude, sweet woman!” shouted a voice in Common, panting from weariness.  
They sprinted towards Lucky Aello's Discount Store with one more act of effort. Its owner put his keys away as the door whistled and bashed.  
So they entered, one by one, into a dim lit room.  
First appeared a slim human woman, skilled with traps, locks, and bows. She fixed her hooded cape, which covered her ginger hair and studded armour. That was Imoen of Candlekeep, showing the merchant a sincere grin on her maple wood coloured face.  
Next trampled a dwarven beard wearer, wielding a battle axe in one hand and a long rectangular shield in the other. He glanced at a display, already having second thoughts. Being a merchant himself, Kagain of Beregost recognized a scam shop when he saw one.  
After him, a human paladin of Helm staggered, eager to take off their chainmail armour and plank themselves to sleep. One garment of theirs stood out: a girdle with a red dazzle that had hexed its owner and transformed their body. Meant to curse a curious adventurer, the belt turned out to bring a blessing. Thus, Ajantis Ilvastarr continued their noble duty as Ajantia.  
Then, a bright green ankheg armour rang at the doorstep. Its wearer, a human cleric, rested her shield and hammer on the floor. Long haired, prepared for death, yet anxious upon spotting any stone sculpture, was Branwen of Seawolf.  
Behind her swaggered an Ilythiiri in leather armour. While Branwen revered many deities, including Tempus, Viconia of house DeVir devoted herself to Shar. She showed expertise in using a mace, healing wounds, and raising skeletons. She was also the one who suggested that the party flee from Centeol’s spider cave.  
Last came a thunder of sheathed short swords carried by an obscured person on their forearms, like a baby they intended to drop onto a fireplace. And indeed, the carrier tripped over a wooden plank and threw the loot at Aello’s desk, stomping and regaining their balance.

The merchant saw a half-elf woman in purpura coloured Knave’s Robe. Her name was Vissenvaib, and Gorion had great hopes for her when she reached maturity in Candlekeep. Unfortunately, Gorion met his death defending her in the woods – as mentors do – leaving her all alone with Imoen as her sole companion. That was when Vissenvaib realized her lifetime knowledge, so praised within Candlekeep walls, meant jack crap when an ogre aims for her head with his club. Relying on her inconsistent wit, she trained herself to induce sleep upon her enemies, produce flames on her palms, and use an improved slingshot. She was also capable of identifying various enchantments on items she found.  
She freed Branwen at Nashkel Carnival and asked her to join her party.  
She saved Viconia from a prejudiced guard and asked her to join her party.  
She found Kagain at his shop and asked him to join her party.  
She met Ajantia on her way to Baldur’s Gate and asked them to join her party.  
Poor, unaware adventurers quickly regretted that decision as Vissenvaib recruited warriors regardless of their moral point of view. She also wanted them all to wear leather armour, and she stood behind them while casting offensive spells. Injured, angered, confused, even more injured, they wondered how she managed to survive without Gorion. That was her mystery and, surprisingly, her charm.

Vissenvaib gasped, wiped off sweat with a sleeve, and started gesturing with her hands, which were dark brown with warm undertones.  
“Those are all for sale,” she explained.  
“Splendid! Let me count them,” Aello touched first two swords with his fingers, then another two, and so on, “Fourteen shorts, one hundred and forty Pieces. Anything else?”  
“Um… Folks?” she switched to Chondathan.  
“Here’s the Traveler’s Robe,” said Imoen.  
“I have a pearl,” followed Viconia in Dark Elven.  
“Will you use the potion of Firebreath, Vissie?” asked Branwen.  
“I don’t buy potions,” quickly replied Aello, “But I will accept the robes and the pearl.”  
“Really now?” frowned Kagain, “Then, who provides you with the potions on your display?”  
“Only trustworthy distributors, sir.”  
“Name one.”  
“I assume your suspicion results from the murkiness of my potions. That’s just a natural precipitate.”  
“Name one distributor,” insisted Kagain.  
“I can sell them for a low price, even lower than it already is. For example, my potion of Healing…”  
“Hold on,” Vissenvaib interrupted him, having read a price tag, “At other store, one bottle cost ninety five Pieces.”  
“Are you certain?”  
“She’s right, for once,” continued Kagain, “Look, swindler, name at least one provider or the last thing you sell will be your head.”  
“Oi, krasnyĭ, no need to be brutal,” Vissenvaib turned her head to the dwarf, “We can simply report him to a guard.”  
“Now, that’s a deed of which Helm shall approve,” Ajantia voiced their opinion, “Confess now, shopkeeper.”  
“Seems like my data on prices in competing stores are no longer valid. It’s just a matter of readjusting my own prices.”  
“By Ilmater, are you listening,” exhaled Vissenvaib in clear annoyance, “Where do you get those potions from?”  
“I promised discretion...”  
“That’s enough. Imoen, find a Flaming Fist.”  
“Consider it done.”

Lucky Aello played oblivious despite a guard entering his shop, “Good evening, sir. Now would you look at this: these customers are prolonging my work, and they haven’t even bought anything, yet they are eager to sue me.”  
“I don’t know, I would say they are precautious,” answered the Flaming Fist mercenary.  
Vissenvaib explained, “I intend to buy a single potion and drink it as you watch, for you will be considered a reliable witness, sir.”  
“Good luck to you, then. There have been testimonies in the past of cursed scrolls that petrified its users.”  
“Wai’, wha’? Then, why is he still allowed to manage a shop?”  
“We couldn’t confirm the crime for we were summoned _after_ a scroll or potion was used. Every single time until tonight, that is.”  
“Well, poop. We don’t have any scrolls to treat petrification. I can only hope this specific beverage does something else.”  
“Or, I could drink it in your stead,” suggested Ajantia.  
“ Or, we could just leave,” mumbled Branwen.  
“Great idea, the paladin should test the potion on themselves,” stated Viconia with vicious intentions.  
“I don’t know, Vicky…” said Vissenvaib, trying to read her face.  
“Think about it: if something bad happens to _you_ , the Iron Throne loses a potent enemy.”  
“And if Ajax dies, _I_ lose a potent friend!”  
“You and your dilemmas. Let _me_ have it,” Kagain grabbed the murky potion from the display, bit its cork off and spat it out, then poured half of the bottle down his throat – all of this before Vissenvaib could react properly. He put the remaining beverage down, exposed a cloth with his injured side by tearing his already damaged armour, and waited. He held down a belch and muffled it with his hand.  
“How’re ya feeling, pal?” asked Imoen.  
“A little funny. As I expected, the swill tastes like unfiltered wine.”  
“How would you know that?” Vissenvaib’s curiosity had to wait, however, because the dwarf started glowing aqua blue…

A wave of chill hit our heroes. They quickly realized they have been taken away, with the part of the floor they stood on, as well as a couple of stone bricks from the wall, now lying next to Branwen in no harmony. Aello and the guard were nowhere to be found.  
Around them was a forest with no distinctive characteristics that would help them tell it apart from the woods they marched through in the past. Night obscured the view for Ajantia and Branwen; Imoen wore an enchanted ring, so darkness didn’t concern her.  
Kagain needed a moment to decide what to say.  
“Great. First the ice dungeon, now this. What do we do?”  
Vissenvaib looked up. “I can see the Double Daggers, I think. If we keep going west, we’ll reach the sea.”  
“And what if the closest sea is to the east?” wondered Ajantia, “We must recognize this place first; then, we can choose a direction.”  
“We might not even be on Faerûn right now,” added Imoen.  
“I’d say these trees look very Faerûnish. Do you folks know constellations? I remember only that some of them are visible in winter.”  
Something growled quietly. Vissenvaib readied her slingshot with dispatch.  
“That’s… just me,” admitted Branwen, “I was really hoping we’d go to tavern and have a steak after the transaction.”  
“Oh. Now that you said it, I’m also a bit hungry. Let’s just walk until we find something that tries to attack us. Then, we’ll use those wooden planks to cook it.”  
“Even if it’s a person?” asked Viconia.  
“Aaah, maybe not yet. We’re not desperate to eat, right?”  
“I don’t know…” whined Branwen.  
“Right, I’ll stay with Bran, and you folks discuss the matter of hunting.”  
“I’m still in possession of those shoes, the speedy ones,” started Viconia, “I’ll don them if you don’t want to use them.”  
“Should we split or march in one group?” Kagain stroke his temple.  
“I suggest we walk in two: you join DeVir, and I accompany Imoen.”  
Viconia acted surprised upon hearing Ajantia’s plan, “And why won’t you go with the hargluk? Do you distrust him?”  
“Well, it’s more that I suppose you’d feel more comfortable with Kagain.”  
Both he and Viconia choked. And no, it wasn’t a romantic implication; it was a nonverbal “They’re actually more ignorant than Vissenvaib, holy crap” message.  
“You know what, I choose the rogue. We’ll be going now. Trust us not,” Viconia left the party, pulling Imoen by her bent elbow.  
Ajantia broadened their mouth as if they wanted to make an “eek!” sound.  
“Paladina, pal. Read a book,” sighed Kagain.  
“I think they meant that you’re both morally ambiguous, so you’d…”  
“Whoa, V, you’re not helping,” he frowned, “Yes, I know what she meant. No, I’m not letting her get away with that without visiting a library. Also, I didn’t ask for your input. Ready to go, Ilvastarr?”

The dwarf returned with a bear, holding its front legs and dragging it along. The paladin carried two honeycombs. Imoen and Viconia brought two hares and a wolf.  
They saw a fireplace as tall as the floor planks were, since Branwen arranged them that way. Vissenvaib was playing a tiny drum, relaxing, nodding her head, and overall glowing with joy.  
“You know, someone may hear you and sneak up on you,” said Imoen.  
“So what? We are warriors. We are skilled. They’ll just strengthen us. Nothing to worry about,” replied the cheerful mage.  
“Alright, now the messy part,” Kagain sat and started skinning the bear, “How far’ve you managed to go?”  
“Pfffffuh, three miles? Just a guess. Viconia?”  
“Perhaps three and a half. By the way, Vissenvaib, you’re screwed.”  
She stopped drumming, “Why?”  
“We got a clearer view of the sky, where a few trees had been cut. Imoen spotted the Alignment.”  
“Oh. Which one?”  
“ _The_ one. The Centaur and the Warrior.”  
“Right, that one. So?”  
“…We’re in the North.”  
“Huh. So, we should go southwest and we’ll be fine.”  
“You realize it’ll take weeks.”  
“Yeah… It’s still better than wandering in mines.”  
“We don’t have to walk all the way to Baldur’s Gate,” said Ajantia, “If we reach the sea, we could get aboard and sail.”  
“Nnno, I’ll feel safer on land.”  
“Sea is much safer, though. As long as Umberlee cooperates,” noted Branwen.  
Imoen nodded, “I agree. We should travel by boat when we can.”  
“Folks! Weren’t we supposed to identify this place first?” complained Vissenvaib.  
“We just did,” replied Viconia, “It’s not Anauroch; it’s not the Glacier; it’s still the North.”  
“It could have been one of those… those places above the Fallen… Stars… Sea… thing,” she gestured vividly again, “It could have been a different continent even!”  
“It doesn’t change the fact we need to go west _as you said yourself, if I remember correctly_.”  
Vissenvaib stomped repeatedly, “ _We’re not taking a boat!_ ”  
“Yes, we are. You’ve been overruled.”  
“Vicky, Imoen, you traiiiiitors!”

And so the travelers went to sleep; the sleep was pleasant, warm, and deep, except for Vissie the half-elf mage, who tucked herself in with cloak and rage.  
Yes, they did eat cooked bear meat before sleep.

As Vissenvaib was falling asleep, she became a viewer, a witness standing on a crimson stone floor in a corner. Two male human beings and a male half-ogre lied in the remaining three corners of a rectangular chamber; she glanced at them one by one from behind a statue. Then, she gazed at the center of the floor, at the symbol she didn’t know. What was it? A skull surrounded by… twelve… drops? Of water? Tears? Blood? Wine? The symbol was golden in its entirety, so she couldn’t tell; besides, it annoyed her that the drops didn’t form a perfect circle, and that was enough to weaken her concentration.  
Suddenly, the statue that shielded her howled as cracks started to cut its surface. The half-elf trotted along the wall, but the second statue was also crumbling, and so was the third one… She figured there was no point and just ran towards the center. But! Even the mysterious symbol started to fall apart, leaving an abyss beneath. She jumped back, lost balance, and fell on her bottom.  
Then she saw him! A massive muscular human, half the height of now broken statues, his eyes glowing yellow, his skin brown but lighter than hers. He had no helmet anymore, just metal dust on his head and ears. His gauntlets, vambraces, greaves, and cuishes weighed him down, slightly deforming as if melting, but they produced no heat. Instead, they crushed his legs and disjointed his shoulders. His breastplate shattered, humiliating him even more. But his shriek! Hauntingly horrific! The man could hold neither his tears nor his urine.  
Vissenvaib coughed and grabbed her own legs just to make sure they are fine.  
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” the man yelled, “YOU HAVE DEFEATED ME! YOU HAVE MADE IT EASY TO STRIKE A LETHAL WOUND! WHY WON’T YOU KILL ME ALREADY?!”  
There was no answer, no laughter, no sign.  
Vissenvaib looked around. To her right was a shard of a sword. Maybe she overlooked it; maybe it magically appeared because she needed it. Such are dreams. She didn’t have time to question her senses; she leaped like a panther, grabbed the shard, stood up, and dashed.  
“I’ll ruin your scheme, whoever you are,” she thought, “I’ll free this man, so he can meet Naralis.”  
One more jump, and she stabbed the tortured man between his ribs. A bruise grew around the wound.  
He smiled, “I thank thee, but it’s for naught. It’s just a vision.”  
“Oh. I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be. I don’t deserve thy compassion… Ngh!” his face twisted in effort, “I’m the one wh…”  
He couldn’t finish. The floor collapsed under him, and the abyss devoured him.

She twitched under her cloak. The dream was over.  
Vissenvaib sat up. Ash was glowing, blinking slowly and peacefully, where the fireplace stood bright that evening. She watched it to calm down.  
“I remembered Naralis,” her thoughts wandered, “I usually refer to Jergal or Myrkul. Because Gorion revered Jergal. I know Naralis only from books. Why would I remember him now? That man’s voice… was similar… except it wasn’t distorted by magic or helmet. Was it _him_? Was _that_ what he meant? «I’m the one who killed Gorion.» And I tried to help him… He claimed it was a vision. Who sent it, then? Why?”  
Too many whos and whys made her hide her head between her knees.

At pink dawn, the party started marching west – at least they thought so. Natural obstacles such as exposed roots or long cavities forced the adventurers to slightly change their path again and again.  
They walked with few breaks, eating the bear meat as they passed mushrooms and dwarf trees.  
Three hours later, Viconia doffed her armour.  
“What’s wrong?” asked Vissenvaib.  
“Sseren…”  
“Usstan xuat zhaun nindil… zheel,” she spoke back in Drow, _I don’t know that word_.  
“It’s warm here.”  
Later, everyone in the party agreed that it was rather warm in the forest.  
“Good thing I still had salt on me; the hares would have been wasted at this temperature,” commented Kagain.  
Before midday, a storm stroke and rain poured for two hours, but the air felt dry afterwards. The party collected the water falling from tree leaves in their waterskins, and continued their walk.

Thus, our heroes reached a village with sixteen buildings and crooked, almost sinuous pathways. They passed a house to their left, entered a path, walked between two houses, turned right, passed two more houses and looked around. A statue greeted them, and a standalone tower with a rectangular arsenal attached to it winked at them with a light reflected by metal.  
Vissenvaib examined a house behind the statue, “Does it look like an inn to you, folks?”  
“If anything, this whole place looks like it suffered a massacre and got repopulated in haste,” said Viconia.  
“Um… How can you tell?”  
“Listen to people around us. They’re speaking Common. Not the Northern Chondathan, not Illuskan, not Commani. Common. Sentences like, «Is our child old enough to go to forest with us?» in Common. Speaking of children, how many can you see or hear?”  
Vissenvaib focused. Her ears moved in various directions. “ _Maybe_ nine.”  
“So, at _least_ seventy people here have no children.”  
“No underage children, that is. Some of them could be an adult offspring.”  
“Still.”  
“Yeah. And the children speak Common, too. That just sucks. So. That house. I’m gonna ask for some directions.”  
Ajantia stepped forward, “No offense, Vissenvaib, but maybe I should do the talking.”  
“Full offense, Ship Captain. I can handle asking _one_ question to a stranger.”

The room they entered was decreased in size with two additional walls, which created a separate room. A corridor to their right resulted from that makeover. The space was filled up with a throng of traders. Deep in the distance, a woman with round tip of her nose was measuring ale in a glass mug.  
Vissenvaib approached, moving smoothly, “Greetings. We are travelers, and we’ve suffered an unfortunate loss of our maps. They soaked in rain, so the ink is illegible. Where are we?”  
“Thundertree, dear lady. We’re full here, no beds. Anything to drink?”  
“Definitely something strong for our dwarf; he risked his life for justice.”  
“No, I didn’t.”  
“Well, the justice for our wallets, that is.”  
“I can offer Fire Wine, Westgate Ruby, or Old One Eye.”  
“Shyoo,” whistled Kagain, “One of each, please.”  
“Vicky?”  
“Westgate and Shadowdark if you serve it.”  
“We do.”  
“Captain Ajax?”  
“Saerloonian Glowfire, please. I assume you have the full Catalogue.”  
“Not really, but we do sell the Glowfire. Noted down.”  
“Bran?”  
“Can I have Special Vat?”  
“Yes, madam.”  
“Imoen?”  
“Two mugs of Suzale.”  
“Then, I’ll have the Purple Hills Cider.”

The party stood, pressing their backs against a wall, sipping and gulping.  
Viconia broke the silence, “By. Shar. What have you brought upon us?”  
The mage took a careful step away from the Ilythiiri, “So, you know where Thundertree is, I reckon?”  
“I happen to have heard about it. And my assumption about the massacre makes sense now, since this village was, indeed, slaughtered in the past by orcs.”  
“Ah.”  
“And the warmth… It comes from the Neverwinter River. And that means we are far away from Baldur’s Gate. Too far to bother traveling by foot.”  
“Grrreat,” Vissenvaib expressed her disapproval.  
“So, we follow the river to Neverwinter and get to the port?” asked Branwen.  
Viconia didn’t have to answer. Vissenvaib hit her head against the wall, repeatedly, murmuring in Rashemi:  
“Why, oh why did I run to that cursed shop? Bladg! Sûkin! Shoot me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> krasnyĭ - Russian adjective meaning both "red" and "beautiful"; the Polish word for dwarves and gnomes is "krasnolud", hence the epithet


	2. How DO we even get there??

Having left Thundertree and the woods, Vissenvaib and her party spotted the river and prepared themselves for a bath.  
Only Viconia hesitated. “I’m intoxicated; I might drown,” she explained.  
“Just sit on the edge and lave yourself,” suggested the mage, “I’ll be around.”  
“And what? Will you yell at the current, «Bad! Bad water!» until it spews me back?”  
Ajantia chuckled, “I can swim, and I’m not delayed.”  
“Oh? Why, though? You used to keep your distance when you joined us, and now…” her pitch gradually increased, “you _talk_ to me? Directly to my _face_?”  
Ajantia gave her a childlike rebellious look.  
“‘Cause you’re our battle healer, Vicûnĭû,” Vissenvaib used a Rashemi grammatical rule (one from many) for constructing a diminutive noun. “It’s in their interest, and mine, and others’…”  
“Mm, the dependance, right. Nah, I’ll wait until I feel more in control over my own body; then I’ll wash myself.”

After the warm bath, Kagain cooked the hares and the wolf. Our adventurers shared the honey with each other and consumed the freshly cooked meat. They still had bear legs left, which they decided to save for the following day.  
They slept by a smaller campfire, which poured dense smoke from fresh branches.

Vissenvaib was the first one to wake up.  
She opened her book – a gift from Imoen back when they both lived in Candlekeep. It contained guides for meditation and casting spells. First five pages were filled with big, clumsy handwriting; the next ten pages were crammed with tiny letters, written with a support of a straightedge, with almost no space between the lines. After Gorion’s death, Vissenvaib flipped the spellbook, front cover on her lap, and started her notes all over, allowing herself to write naturally.  
Now, on a ground far away from the places she knew, she decided to revise her knowledge on spellcraft.

_=MAGICKE=  
There are six elemental planes, but to make things easier, we’ll assume there are ten. Assign one hand-finger to one “plane”._

__

_WATER = right index f._  
_AIR = right myddle f._  
_FIRE = right ring f._  
_SOILE (actually earth) = right pinky_

 _BODY = left index f._  
_MINDE = left myddle f._  
_SOUL = left ring f._  
_CHAOS = left pinky_

_THE GOOD = right thumb  
THE EVIL = left thumb_

_Combine the fingers to “produce” another element, even if it does not work like that in reality._

_ICE = Water and Air_  
_ACID = Water and Fire_  
_MUD = Water and Soile_  
_LIGHTNING = Air and Fire_  
_SMOKE = Air and Soile_  
_LAVA = Fire and Soile_

_Your thumbs shall determine whether your spell is a blessing (The Good) or a curse (The Evil); whether it Removes a curse or Inflicts it._

_=MEDITATION=_  
_Sit on the floor or an even ground. Relax your legs, don’t worry about creeps. Rest your hands on your thighs. There shoulde be no effort, no muscle tensed. Close your eyes. Try not to sleep. By Ilmater, don’t you sleep._  
_You know how cats purr when thei breathe? Imagine you’re purring. Imagine that your throte is vibrating with a peacefull purr. When you’re done, extend the vibrations to your chest. When you thinck you’re done with the chest purring = nay, you’re wrong, keep the chest purrs going. Don’t imagine the purrs in your head, it feels immature. Nay, keep those Chest Purrs. If you’re feeling annoyed, then it’s a definite sign that you need to maintain the Chest Purrs for even longer. You’re not supposed to be annoyed. Accept the Chest Purrs. Be the Chest Purrs._

 _Now, imagine an image of water filling you inside your chest, trembling with the Purrs. This is your source of the Water Magicke._  
_Now, the water inside you boils and rises in vapour. Imagine an image of steam pressing gently, vibrating with the Purrs. This is your source of the Air Magicke._  
_Now, the air fuels a blaze inside you. Imagine an image of a flame inside your chest, flickering with the Purrs. This is your source of the Fire Magicke._  
_Now, the flames die oute, and ashes fall to the bottom on your chest. Imagine an image of dust in you, shaking with the Purrs. This is your source of the Soile Magicke._  
_Go back to the Chest Purrs with no images._

 _Now, extend the inner Purrs in your imagination to your entire body. Don’t thinck about a particular part of your body, but rather accept the Body Purrs. You need to imagine them for roughly the same lengthe of time you imagined the Chest Purrs first. This is your source of the Body, the Minde, and the Soul Magicke. Your thought, your intention will determine where your spell strikes._  
_Now, cease the Purrs inside you, and imagine that the world around you is purring. Sense it on your skin, heare it with your ears. This is your source of the Chaos Magicke. This is the raw, pure energy; your thought will give it a shape and a purpose._  
_Open your eyes. You’re redy._

 _=SPELLS=_  
_BURNING HANDS = Extend the Fire and the Body fingers._  
_COLOUR SPRAY = Extend the Minde and the Evil fingers; thinck of reynbowes._  
_IDENTIFY = Extend the Minde and the Good fingers; press them ageinst your temples._  
_MAGICKE MISSILE = Extend the Chaos and the Body fingers._  
_SHIELD = Extend the Body and the Good fingers; cross them in front of you._  
_SHOCKING GRASP = Extend the Air, the Fire, and the Body fingers; touch the target._  
_SLEEP = Extend the Minde and the Evil fingers; draw a curve in the air._  
_ACID ARROW invented by some important fellow = Extend the Water, the Fire, and the Body fingers; thinck of arrows._  
_HOLD PERSON = Extend the Body and the Evil fingers; throw them in front of you in a line._  
_FLAME ARROW = Extend the Fire and the Body fingers; thinck of arrows._

 _=TO MASTRE=_  
_BLINDENESS = Even when I thinck about eyes, my attempts either fail or result in the Hold Person spell._  
_SCORCHER = My attempts result in the Burning Hands spell._  
_KNOCK = I need to study what locks look like inside. Imoen has showed me only two broken locks, which is not sufficient for me._  
_DISPEL MAGICKE = My attempts either fail or result in a random curse._  
_SLOW = My attempts result in a target getting showered with snailes._  
_DIMENSION DOOR = My attempts result in a conjuration of a random door._

Crinkling of leather caught her attention; first turned her ears, eyes followed.  
Imoen rubbed her eyelids and scratched away the half-solid, half-liquid dirt. One glance at her friend and she started smiling.  
“How was your night, Visska?”  
“Much better than the previous one. Yours?”  
“So-so. I dreamt that ponies were riding giant dragonflies.”  
“Whoa. I would love to have a dream like that,” Vissenvaib looked at her arcanabula again, caressed its paper, and gently closed it. Her irides set like the Sun, her eyebrows lowered. Imoen noticed she was tapping on the cover with her fingertip. Rhythmic, subconscious tic neither helped the mage nor hindered her thinking.  
“Imû… I’ve been praying to Deneir, Azuth, Corellon, Labelas, and Curna… Mystra the Mystery, and Mystra the Midnight… I don’t know who to pray to anymore. My magic is not improving. When I was younger, I just _knew_ the cantrips. I didn’t have to learn them, I just cast them on command. And Gorion’s teachings gave me a general idea of what I was supposed to do to achieve a specific result. Now?… I try to cast a new spell, but I get another one or nothing at all. Or some stupid sparkles. And I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong, because I _swear_ I’m still following Gorion’s tips. Do I search for another school and pretend I’m new at this? Do I abandon dweomercraft? Tchart,” she exhaled in Rashemi at the end.  
“Mmm… You could have talked to Dynaheir when we had a chance.”  
“Pff, at that time, I simply thought that my progress was slow due to stress.”  
“Maybe ask Branwen or Viconia for advice. I mean, obviously they don’t cast spells, but they keep in touch with deities.”  
Vissenvaib narrowed her lips, considering Imoen’s suggestion.

Our wayfarers were eating breakfast, basked in orange sunlight.  
Vissenvaib straightened her back, “Bran, may I ask you something?”  
“Go ahead.”  
“How do you pray to Tempus?”  
“I recite the prayers I was taught back in Seawolf.”  
“Hm. Maybe _that’s_ my issue.”  
“Huh?”  
“My magic refuses to improve despite my practices. Maybe I’m supposed to use stock prayers to appease the magic-holding deities. ‘Til now, I’ve been just speaking my mind, addressing my thoughts to them.”  
“Actually, that’s exactly what I do, and Shar listens to me,” commented Viconia.  
“Oh. Then… Say, how did you use to pray to Llolth?”  
“I used both fixed prayers and my own words. I don’t want to elaborate on that.”  
“Sure thing. Huuuh… Maybe I’m messing up my _sentences_ , then? That’s been my problem since… always. Gorion made me aware of that.”  
Bran pressed her index finger in its whole length against a cheek, under her eye, “Well, perhaps you could tell us what exactly you say when you pray. Or give us a general idea.”  
“Also, if I may add something,” spoke Ajantia.  
“I’m listening.”  
“You need to remember each deity has their own personality and level of tolerance. That’s why one shouldn’t pray the same way to all of them. You need to study their history of conflicts to understand them better.”  
Kagain faked a cough.  
“Yes, I recognize my hypocrisy, regarding ereyesterday. People err and learn.”  
“Heck, you’re right,” the half-elf rested her forearms on her lap, “Folks, before we sail, we need to find a bookstore in Neverwinter.”  
“Books on religions become outdated very quickly,” said Kagain, “Consulting priests will be better, for divine mythoi never stop; they develop as we speak.”  
“Rrright. It would be splendid if gods simply chilled for a year or two. I never liked talking to presbyters.”  
“What about us?,” asked Branwen.  
“You’re _battle_ clerics. You’re practical. That’s different.”  
“I disagree with you. Temple priests are just as practical as us.”  
“Except they’re greedy.”  
“Excuse me? They need money to eat and maintain temples.”  
“Can’t their gods enchant the shrines with indestructibility? Especially since it’s in their interest to keep worshippers around. Also, the presbyters are demanding more and more money for resurrections. If that’s not an act of greed – or racial prejudice, regarding Vicky – what is it?”  
No one answered for a moment. There were only gazes. Vissenvaib quickly analyzed their faces one by one. She detected sweat on her palms.  
Finally, Viconia spoke, “You question authorities. That’s why they’re not answering you.”  
She opened her mouth, stricken with terror.  
Imoen stood up with her knees bent and sat closer to Vissenvaib. The mage did nothing.  
The rogue spoke gently, “Vissie. Vissenin. It’s alright.”  
The mage whined.  
“Visska.”  
She repeated the sob.  
“Hey. We’ll find a library, you’ll read a bit, and you’ll learn how to pray. It’ll be fine.”  
“Tosh Viki skazala…”  
“Viconia simply spoke her mind.”  
The Ilythiiri squinted.  
“No, she… She applied her own experience… She may be right…”  
The cleric of Shar turned her head away from the women. Her white hair with violet highlights slipped from her ear and covered her cheek.  
Imoen continued, “It’s not too late for you to improve your prayers.”  
The half-elf whimpered.  
“How about you play for the gods now? Show them that you’re willing to change.”  
Vissenvaib pressed her lips again. She contemplated for a while. She opened her bag and picked up the drum. She pondered again, with her right hand above the membrane.  
She began: **bam popo bam, pabam popo bam prrapabam popo bam, pabam pata pa po bam**. She sang loud and clear, and she sang as follows:

_“O, Azuth, Valshébnikov Rûko_  
_Ostañ zé mno, ostañ zé mno_  
_Ĭa khachĭela napravitch své déla_  
_I pochĭeshitch Tébé”_

«O, Azuth, the Hand of Sorcerers  
Stay with me, stay with me  
I would like to right my [wrong]doings  
And to cheer You up»

«I will learn about Your expectations  
Stay with me, stay with me  
I will stop upsetting You  
And I’ll cheer You up»

«I’m just a simple-minded mage  
Stay with me, stay with me  
I need more time than others  
To cheer You up»

«I will follow Your guidance  
Stay with me, stay with me  
I will consult Your priests  
And I’ll cheer You up»

«So please don’t abandon me  
Stay with me, stay with me  
Grant me one more chance  
And I’ll cheer You up»

Meanwhile, Imoen went back where she slept and quietly translated what Vissenvaib sang to the rest of the party. Ajantia nodded in approval. Branwen stared in awe. Viconia locked her eyes on the horizon.  
Kagain shrugged, “I _guess_ she’s doing fine with her prayers. Then again, she has yet to tell us how she prayed prior to today.”  
Vissenvaib switched to singing vowels and semivowels, smoothly changing notes. She even closed her eyes for a brief moment, giving an impression of falling into trance. One thing was certain: she felt better.

The adventurers spent whole morning, midday, and a half of the afternoon marching through the plains next to the Neverwinter River. They encountered a fox, which fled swiftly. They also saw a lynx licking its paw. Finally, they reached the city-state of Neverwinter – or rather its tall walls. Blue banners, with a sky-blue eye shedding three tears, never rested on the walls, waving with the wind which blew at average speed.  
But the city didn’t seem to be inviting its new guests. It was quiet. No sounds of wooden crates, fabrics, ships; no merchants bargaining, no civilians gossipping. Only dogs barking, especially the militia dogs guarding the entrance.  
And muffled screams.  
Screams in agony, laments, and haunting howling.  
“Oh, dear,” Vissenvaib stood still, feeling some sort of weight in her heart.  
Ajantia approached the gate, grabbed their sword by its ricasso and knocked loudly with the pommel.  
A guard moved aside a wooden plank to take a look. “No entry,” they quickly said in Common.  
“How about the port? The docks?”  
“ **No** , entry!”  
“Why?”  
“By Lord Nasher’s command, no entry granted for foreigners.”  
“What happened, though?”  
“Please! We’re having enough problems now!”  
Ajantia was stunned by the guard’s refusal to explain the situation. They turned around and shrugged, looking at the companions.  
“DeVir, can you try?” asked Vissenvaib.  
“Certainly,” Viconia knew from previous conversations that it is better not to argue with the mage because they would have wasted more time otherwise, “Xun izil udos quarth, rivvil.”  
“Uh… Blast it… Pyekeshaki… iaa,” stuttered the guard and closed the rectangular hole.  
“Did they answer in _Espruar_?,” grumbled the dark elf.  
Vissenvaib quickly answered, “They said, «forty days,» as in, an isolation of the sick. They’re… They’re having a plague.”  
The party looked at the Rashemi half-elf. The message dawned on them like a heavy blanket.  
“Where do we go, then?” asked Branwen.  
“Port Llast is the closest settlement from here,” said Imoen, “North from Neverwinter.”  
“Then, we should pray for the city and leave.”  
Branwen, Ajantia, and Vissenvaib kneeled; Kagain entwined his hands and pressed them against his forehead; Viconia and Imoen remained as they stood, listening to suspicious rustling behind the gate…  
And then!  
The gate broke apart, its long pieces hitting the paladin and the human cleric before they could react. The mage yelled in high pitch, standing up in panic and stepping back. Naturally, her scream shook her comrades.  
But who could have done that with a massive, locked gate? Why, a half-giant, for example. They had snow white skin and they were wearing rags with three thin, vertical rectangles sewed on the top. The guard who talked to the wayfarers just a minute ago was lying on the cobblestone road, waving their legs and struggling to breathe. So were other guards and dogs in the background, as Kagain quickly noticed.  
“Is it clear, buddy?” asked another person in similar rags.  
“Not quite. There are six strays here.”  
“No follower of Shar is a stray,” Viconia took offence, detaching her mace from the belt.  
“Oi, target the humans; this scum is mine,” exclaimed Kagain.  
Vissenvaib reacted after staring at the half-giant and pushed the broken plank away from Branwen’s helmet. “Shoot! Bran, how’re you feeling? Can you…?”  
“I feel dizzy.”  
“Aha, then, move on four limbs, just get away from here! Ajax!”  
Ajantia stood up on their own, holding the plank that hit them. “At last, Helm blesses us with some action.”  
Kagain threw himself forward, spinning slightly, and aiming with his battle axe at half-giant’s left leg. They tried to stop him with a pound, but their fist hit the dwarf’s shield. A shallow wound wept with blood on their calf.  
At the same time, more people, mostly men, rampaged through the broken gate. Viconia chose one of them; she murmured, “Oloth wun solen,” extended her index finger while still gripping the mace, and stroke her target with blindness. Pushing them aside, she walked towards another fugitive and hit them twice: in their forearm, and their temple. They fell to the ground with a serious wound.  
“Who are you even!?” yelled Vissenvaib, struggling to open a pouch.  
“We are free! That’s what we are!”  
Imoen drew two daggers, “They’re prisoners, Vissenin! That sign on their chests represents dungeon bars!”  
“Oh,” the mage glanced at them, then at the pouch. Finally, she got it opened and grabbed sulfur dust, “I hope you’re not political prisoners, then.”  
“You’re overthinking!”  
“Aye!” the half-elf threw sulfur and set it ablaze with her right ring finger. The aggressors stepped aside, but two of them caught fire.  
“Keep your fire spells for the giant!” yelled Ajantia, beating people left and right with the plank, which they held in the middle and span as they pleased.  
Kagain kept on distracting and provoking the half-giant. He even cut off their finger.  
Vissenvaib cast Magic Missile at one of the prisoners, constantly running backwards to keep her distance. “Aren’t they resistant to fire, though?”  
Ajantia continued, “Frost giants!? They melt! Kinda.”  
The rogue cut five people, kicked a wounded fugitive’s chest and elbowed other one’s stomach. Another enemy tried to grab her left wrist; they did, but Imoen – without looking – gracefully flipped her weapon blade down, and moved her hand behind her in a curve, stabbing them below their ribcage. She freed her wrist and focused on the rest of the prisoners.  
One attacker was clever enough to steal a guard’s sword. That was when Ajantia threw the plank, aiming at prisoners’ knees. Three men fell down.  
“For Helm!” they yelled, having drawn their weapon.  
“Oww,” replied one of the aggressors, examining their disjointed knee.  
Viconia bashed one foe with her shield, blinded another, and hit two people, using both the mace and the shield.  
Someone yelled, “Get the wizard! Get the witch before she finds her ingredients!”  
Ajantia was fighting the fugitive who had the stolen sword. Parrying with ease, blocking with the blade and guard, the paladin made the prisoner expose themselves and wounded their side. Bleeding internally, the person collapsed.  
Kagain kept tiring the half-giant.  
Vissenvaib fired two Acid Arrows at two foes. She burned the third one. She fled. She opened another pouch, loaded her slingshot, span the weapon and ejected a stone bullet… which hit Ajantia in the back.  
She threw her arms, “For _cat’s_ sake!”  
“V!” yelled Kagain, “You’re gonna make your way here or not!?”  
“Pshétch! There’s too many of them!”  
He rolled his eyes, “DeVir! Cast Hold Person!”  
“I haven’t prepared myself for that!”  
“I’ll do it!” Vissenvaib extended left thumb and left index finger.  
Branwen, sitting safely despite the brawl, folded her hands and prayed inaudibly.  
A prisoner and the half-giant froze in place; a blue glisten suggested that it was the cleric who cursed the frost giant, while the human fugitive shined in violet.  
Kagain sighed, “By Dugmaren, V!”  
“Ack! I’m sorry!”  
“Whatever! Get in here, quick!”  
A wounded prisoner replied, “Don’t let her get there!”  
But Ajantia threw the sword (the stolen one) at one attacker and their shield at another one. Those who intended to stop the mage had to deal with the paladin. Their left hand resting on the pommel, their eyes seeing clearly despite sweat, their jaw broad and shaping their face into a square, their veins peaking beneath the skin.  
Those who even _thought_ about stopping the mage had to face the paladin.  
Meanwhile, Vissenvaib galloped clumsily and prepared her fingers for Flame Arrow. She successfully cast it on the frost giant.  
Imoen knocked out one more prisoner and sheathed one dagger to hold a bow. She had already trained firing arrows while holding one dagger. If she ever had to write a vita or résumé, she would have put “flexibility” as one of her traits. Not only was she physically flexible, but she could also come up with a solution to current challenges effortlessly; moreover, she could switch from a ranged weapon to close combat within milliseconds, and the other way round as well.  
The fugitives, busy fighting the dwarf, the paladin, and the Ilythiiri, became shooting range prompts.  
The curse wore out, and the half-giant started running, hoping they would reach the river. But Kagain remained watchful, as he sank his axe in the foe’s back. Next, Imoen shot an arrow, which went through their eyeball and hit their nose. The magic-induced fire went out, but the half-giant was already severely wounded. On their knees, their reflexes weakened. The dwarf ran upwards on their back and delivered a fatal hit to their neck. And another one for good measure.  
The main threat was slain, but there were five more fugitives with stolen weaponry _and_ armour. Vissenvaib burned one of them without a thought. The fire heated up the metal, scarring the enemy’s torso.  
Ajantia flipped their sword, held it by its ricasso again and charged. Initially amused, their target quickly realized what was happening: Ajantia used their half-swording skills to inflict smashing injuries with the pommel.  
Viconia had a different strategy. She tossed her shield and unsheathed a long, thin dagger – velve whol karliik, “a dagger for head,” meant for stabbing all those weak spots which plate armour didn’t cover. She still kept her mace in her right hand. The prisoners stared at the cleric of Shar; no one wanted to fight her.  
Kagain just said, “V! Theur oth!”  
Vissenvaib blinked twice in shock. “Are you sure you said what you meant to say?”  
“Avavaen.”  
“Alright,” the mage pressed left index finger against right thumb, and right index finger against left thumb. She positioned the rectangle in front of her chest and spoke, “Nesirtye.”  
Of course, she conjured a wooden door. Kagain smirked, grabbed it and smashed it on a prisoner’s head. The impact knocked them unconscious, despite a helmet they were wearing. The remaining two enemies couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.  
And then…  
The sound of horseshoes hitting the cobblestone, click-clacking from the city.  
One fugitive doffed a breastplate and turned a sword using both hands. Our warriors, who have just wounded and killed dozens of people, as they did in previous months, closed their eyes; when they opened them again, the prisoner lied on the soil, with the hilt sticking out of their torso.  
The last man dropped the stolen weapon and turned around, watching as an armoured figure was riding a horse.  
A knight in full plate armour, with a visored bascinet, an aventail, short spikes decorating their pauldrons, and the emblem of Neverwinter engraved on their chest. They had two swords sheathed on each side. They stopped their horse and looked down on the survivor.  
“Do you surrender to the militia?” they meant the aid of ten guards that was following them through a district.  
“I do.”  
“Has anyone escaped?”  
“No. They all lie here.”  
“You shall face justice once more,” they descended from the horse and approached the group of six strangers, “I apologize for our inexcusable lack of professionalism. These prisoners…” they sighed.  
“Well, I mean,” started Vissenvaib, “a guard managed to tell us about the quarantine, so… It’s natural they wanted to flee instead of getting infected. Determination makes the impossible possible.”  
The knight raised their head slightly; shadows shifted on the helmet’s navy-blue surface, which gave the half-elf an impression that _the helmet’s “facial” expression has changed_.  
“Who are you exactly?”  
“Travelers. We need a boat to get back to Baldur’s Gate.”  
“Oh… Do you have to sail there immediately? If yes, then you need to go to Port Llast.”  
“And… if not?”  
“You could do Lord Nasher and the city an honourable favour.”  
Kagain inhaled loudly and interrupted the knight, “Actually… We need to do a favour to Baldur’s Gate. You see, these guys from Iron Throne pose a threat to…”  
He stopped because the knight opened their visor. Frowning eyebrows and displeased mouth pierced him like needles.  
“The Iron Throne? Wasn’t it disbanded in the sixty-ninth Dalereckoning? What are you talking about, dwarven fighter?”  
Kagain’s jaw dropped. Vissenvaib returned to the conversation, “Look, a merchant scammed us, one of his potions warped us into the Neverwinter Woods, we didn’t even realize it wasn’t the sixty-eighth anymore. Which is… wow. What year is it, then?”  
The knight blinked for a longer while, processing the sentences the mage has spoken. “The seventy-second. The twenty-seventh day of Kythorn, thirteen-seventy-two.”  
“Holy… Oh, dear, oh no… Wai’, how did the Iron Throne disband?”  
“It just vanished. No one knows. ”  
“Huh. That could be temporary. But then… Folks, what do we do?”  
Branwen went closer to the group, carefully and without confidence. “What would you like to do?”  
“Help them?”  
“Of course,” said Viconia.  
The knight spoke, “If you enter, we won’t let you out until the pyekeshaki ends.”  
“Thank you, I realized that. Vicky, you wanna leave?”  
“…No.”  
“But… you’re against me helping them.”  
“That’s different.”  
“Different from what?”  
“From fighting by your side,” replied the Ilythiiri, giving her a faint smile.  
“Technically, I was… like, two yards away from you…”  
Viconia facepalmed gently, “Right. How about you, Imoen?”  
“I don’t mind helping them. Especially since we don’t have to go back to Baldur’s Gate anymore. Kagain?”  
“Mmrpff.”  
Vissenvaib sighed, “I think I know what he needs: ale. And a monetary reward for slaughtering all these fugitives.”  
“Actually, I want you to summon one more door so I can fix the gate.”  
“Ah. Sure. And after that?”  
“Food. Which we have to pay for. So, yeah, money.”  
“Yup. Bran?”  
“Whether we go or stay, I won’t mind.”  
“Uh-huh, and Ajax? You still want the ship or you’re feeling Helm calling you for duty?”  
Ajantia’s smile was broader and brighter than Viconia’s. “…I grow weary.”  
Kagain chuckled, “We all do, pal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spelling choices in Vissie's spellbook are intentional.  
> Only a couple of deaths is explicitly confirmed in this section; the rest is implied or up to personal interpretation.


	3. Things get serious now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a fire survivor, read this one with caution.

After the militia rearrested the fugitives and Kagain fixed the gate, the party was invited by the knight for a meal.  
“My house lies at the City Core. We will walk through Beggar’s Nest, a district of wealthless families. I apologize in advance for the sight you will have to bear, and advise that you keep out of the sick and the bodies. If you have scarves or other pieces of cloth with which you can cover your faces, don them immediately.”  
So they did; meanwhile, the knight gave their horse a carrot and gently patted their withers. Instead of climbing back on a saddle, they held reins and lead the horse; the wayfarers followed.  
“How much do you know about Baldur’s Gate?” asked Vissenvaib.  
“I only heard of a series of murders, with a common motif being that the victims were criminals. Apparently, a logger witnessed such a murder. He mentioned a drow, a dwarf, a sun elf, and three humans, neither pale nor tanned. It had to be you, then, gentlefolk.”  
“Except I don’t know if my ancestors were the Ar. But sure, he tried deducing me, so whatever.”  
“Ah, so you’re a half-elf, then. My pleasure, so am I.”  
“Tsk, the truth is more complex than that, and I don’t remember the details well, so I accepted that as my _official_ race. For all I know, I might be a quarter-elf.”  
“Nmm, don’t say that. No elf is a quarter-elf or quarter-human. Even the name «half-elf» itself is a stretch. It’s just that people enjoy knowing intimate details about others, be it their heritage or their _belt_ even,” their tone indicated a euphemism, “One says, «half-elf,» and everyone knows who my parents were. Such are languages.”  
“Yeah… That’s one of the things that frustrate me in languages.”  
“Try learning concepts that don’t have a native equivalent,” said Viconia.  
“I know what you mean but I believe every concept has an equivalent in other languages, they may just need more words than one. Something like… «unironic trust» or «a gaze of unspoken lust.»”  
“So, descriptive translations?”  
“Aye, that.”  
The knight took a look at the party, “How did you end up fighting criminals?”  
“They took over our iron mines. Imoen, Branwen, and I went underground, defeated a guy, and read his letters. We searched for the man who wrote the letters, killed _him_ , read _his_ letters, and we just went on like this until we reached Baldur’s Gate.”  
“Sounds like a quality adventure. Well then, who’s Imoen, and who’s Branwen?”  
“I’m Imoen. I disarm traps for our friends.”  
“I am Branwen, a cleric of Tempus. I keep our spirits up during battles.”  
“My name is Kagain. I sell and I gain,” he waited for the knight’s reaction.  
They moved their eyes to their right, blinked, and tilted their head, “Is that your store’s slogan?”  
“Of course not.”  
“What is it, then?”  
“«Reliable guards of your goods.»”  
“I see. Fellow elves, what are your names?”  
“Vissenvaib. I practice magic.”  
“Viconia. I treat wounds.”  
“And that makes us the last ones to give out introductions,” said the human paladin, “I am Ajantia. I serve Helm and people in need.”  
“Oh. Desther will be delighted to meet another follower of Helm. I should introduce you to him. Anyway, my name is Aribeth de Tylmarande. Lord Nasher’s right hand and a paladin of Tyr.”  
“Who’s Tyr?” blurted out Vissenvaib.  
“God of justice. You don’t know him?”  
“Wait, I do. From books, so I’ve been mispronouncing their name in my mind.”  
Aribeth laughed softly, “It’s not easy, speaking three languages.”  
“Truly. And I speak Rashemi, and I’m studying Ilythiirian.”  
Viconia inhaled.  
“That’s great. Keep your mind busy, it will serve you well in your final days.”  
The mage rose her eyebrows in joy and spoke in cute, high-pitched voice, “Thank you.”  
“For what?”  
“Uh… Whenever I tell people I speak five languages, Vicky tells me to stop bragging. Even when I don’t mean to brag. She claims people are jealous by nature.”  
“Is that true, Dhaer’Quess surnar?”  
“Those people weren’t paladins.”  
Vissenvaib nodded, “Most of them knew only two languages. I mean, when one’s a farmer or hunter, they’re already preoccupied with their work and tools. Why _should_ they speak three languages or more?”  
“To prepare a counterattack,” replied Viconia.  
“Heh. But then, they would say that the militia are the ones…” she didn’t finish, shifting her focus onto something in a short distance.  
A person gathered water from the river with a bucket and poured it into a wooden bath. Near the container sat a child, their skin as dry as a desert, their eyes without sharpness, their ears bruise-like blue, their ribs, visible beneath the mortal surface, becoming a metaphorical cage, and a sheet resting on their lap, foretelling that it would become their shroud.  
Those two weren’t alone; crowds of healthy people were taking the river water to bathe the sick in it.  
“What does the disease exactly do?” Vissenvaib asked Aribeth, fixing her sight on their nose.  
“It drains heat from their bodies. That’s all. But it causes severe secondary diseases and great pain.”  
Branwen joined back in, “How can a disease lower one’s body heat with no cold or ice involved? Is miasma producing freeze or something?”  
“The plague is of magical origins. It does fume its own pollution like other diseases; it’s just… It has this _aura_ typical of curses.”  
Branwen replied, “A contagious curse… Sounds like a deliberate act.”  
“It does, but we have found no proof so far. I shall explain more once we reach my home.”  
“Why not now?” asked Vissenvaib.  
“Think for a moment, V; you’re smarter than that,” Kagain patted the mage’s shoulder, which surprised her.  
“Uh… Your research is confidential?”  
“Exactly,” Aribeth’s voice remained melodic yet professional.  
“There you go,” Kagain clapped gently.  
Vissenvaib’s eyes opened wide in confusion, “…why are you doing this?”  
He didn’t answer.

Aribeth’s house was rather small; it didn’t have any additional floors; there were only four rooms there, as the adventurers noticed when they entered the first and the biggest one. While the exteriors shined bright with milk white stones and inspired awe with detailed sculptures engraved on columns, the grey dinner room, with its scanty and humble decorations, didn’t look like a paladin’s chamber at all. It felt extraordinarily spacious if not empty.  
A male elf with a golden circlet on his head was turning a metal crank above fire, cooking two hens. Fat was dripping from the meat and hissing upon contact with flames.  
“Greetings,” spoke the mage.  
“Welcome,” answered the man, not looking at the guests, “‘Tis a pleasure to meet you. Who are you?”  
Aribeth explained, “These travelers brought fugitives to a halt. I reckoned they deserve a dinner.”  
“Should I prepare it?”  
“Nay, you’ve had enough duties for today.”  
“You two can eat first,” said Imoen, “It would be a waste if you cooked for us while your chicken got stone cold.”  
“No. Unless you want to eat together, we can give you the chickens, cook four more for the rest, and _then_ Fenthick and I shall eat last.”  
The warriors turned to look at Branwen.  
It took her a moment, “No, I’m not that hungry.”

Viconia and Vissenvaib were the first to sit behind a moderately long table. The mage was slowly tracing patterns of wooden growth lines with her finger; the surface was smooth because of lacquer.  
“Could you do that when we’re at tavern?” suggested Viconia in low tone.  
Vissenvaib took her hand off the table, obedient but upset, “Sorry.”  
Aribeth was gone, changing clothes in other room. They returned, wearing violet blouse, long crimson skirt, three leather belts, two rings, and a necklace with the Neverwinter’s eye. They let their straight hair loose, resting on their shoulders.  
Vissenvaib opened her mouth subconsciously. She had a clear view of the paladin’s symmetrical nose, trimmed eyebrows, glossing hair, sharp ears, exposed, muscular forearms, contrasting gentle wrists…  
The cleric of Shar, on the other hand, could clearly see her companion’s dazed expression. She had to turn around to see Aribeth.  
“Look out, you’re going to be invited to our party, too,” joked the Ilythiiri.  
“Why not? If fate allows it, _and_ if Fenthick can join.”  
“Why not? Because Vissen is not a competent leader.”  
The mage looked away, “Please.”  
Imoen gestured with a double stroke against her ear helix, which made the dark elf change the topic: “So, the plague; does it have a name?”  
Aribeth took a knife and started preparing naked chickens, “We call it the Wailing Death. The sick shiver for the first four days; they breathe fast, have difficulties with recalling the past events, and forget which day it is. In the next ten days, shivers intensify and the sick can barely change their clothes. They eat more, yet they lose weight. The following ten days is a period when ears get infected. Some patients can’t hear, and their sight also worsenes. The last three days are the worst. The sick stop eating. They vomit. Some stop reacting to their environment. Their breath stinks. Death comes suddenly, often when they’re awake. Their hearts simply give up.”  
“Yikes,” thought Vissenvaib.  
“Is the disease curable?” asked Ajantia.  
“We don’t know yet. We’re trying. Lord Nasher assembled a group of clerics, medics, and alchemists, who are searching for a confirmed cure. Prayers fail, so do potions. We can only dissolve the discharges that block the patients’ ears. And separate the healthy from the sick, unless they refuse.”  
“What do they do, those cure-seekers?” Vissenvaib’s curiosity spoke through her mouth.  
Fenthick answered, “We extract the miasma and run tests with various ingredients. We discovered that, for some reason, the miasma reacts to blood of a pig. Indeed, pigs also fall sick, although they die much faster. So we treat the miasma sample with an ingredient, simulate a normal temperature of pig’s blood, and combine the two to examine the results. We used to try it out on living pigs, but the pyekeshaki resulted in a shortage of goods, food, and farm animals, so instead, we pour blood into cups and magically freeze it for later use. We use water-and-air thermoscopes to visualize changes in the blood samples without touching them.”  
Viconia expressed an emotion unusual for her: respect. “Your experiment is revolutionary. Future scholars could learn much more about various diseases this way.”  
“If only I could share your enthusiasm, fellow drow. Our progress is slow. Pork is rationed. We’re running out of potential ingredients, trying out so-called uncommon items.”  
“«So-called»?”  
“They’re not uncommon to the people who provide us with them. But one can’t find them in Neverwinter.”  
“How can they provide you if the city’s closed?” asked Branwen.  
“Guards lower a platform from the walls, wait for the supplies, and lift it up.”  
“Are you receiving food supplies that way, too?”  
“Well… The wealthy do. Lord Nasher’s priority is getting those uncommon creatures, which, naturally, are expensive. It’s difficult, balancing out the finances. It was an even greater challenge to convince other cities that our Gold Pieces aren’t stained with the miasma. But that’s where our luck ran out: several merchants and artisans of Neverwinter fell victim to the Wailing Death; our trading cities weren’t willing to take more risks and weighed us down with embargoes. Thus, the city has no financial income since Tarsakh. We had to isolate the money that belonged to the deceased, too.”  
Branwen clasped her hands.  
Ajantia scratched their cheek, “Why wouldn’t gods be able to heal the sick? Do they refuse?”  
Aribeth put an emptied chicken body away, “According to Desther, the Wailing Death is their trial, while Helotan claims they… They don’t want to choose a side.”  
Vissenvaib made a perplexed face with as many wrinkles as she could, “Wha’?”  
“It makes just as much sense to you as it does to her.”  
“Huh.”  
“Although… If I had to guess what the gods could have meant by that… Neverwinter has enemies, including the city of Luskan. If they learn about the plague, they might take this opportunity to attack us.”  
“Mm. Right, but who’s He-lo-tan?”  
“She’s helping Fenthick gather some of the potential ingredients. You’ll have a chance to meet her.”  
She nodded. Then, a thought crossed her mind, “Wait, she’s allowed to leave the city?”  
Fenthick spoke, “Our tests confirmed that dryads don’t get infected with the plague’s miasma.”  
“Aaah.”  
Viconia raised her finger, but Fenthick laid a plate with the cooked hen in front of her. Bending the finger, she restrained herself and began consumption.  
“Can I have a fork?” asked Vissenvaib.  
Aribeth lowered and raised their eyebrows in one smooth motion, “We… don’t use forks.”  
“I see. May I use mine?”  
“Sure.”

This information wasn’t worth mentioning earlier, but Vissenvaib felt unexplainable disgust whenever she stained her fingers with animal fat. Even when she was provided with water to wash her hands after meal, she prefered eating with a fork. Imoen was already used to that habit of hers; others not so much. But Viconia was too hungry to scold the mage, while Branwen and the rest didn’t want to shame her in front of strangers. She did ask, after all.

When Branwen and Kagain were biting into chicken legs, Aribeth was discussing with Fenthick the matter of lodging. Vissenvaib could hear them despite their quiet voices.  
“I assume they have their own sleeping bags, so we could rearrange the furniture… Move the table closer to that wall… Fen?”  
The elf closed his eyes, “Aye, it’s doable.”  
“What’s the matter?”  
“For how long do you plan to keep them?”  
“I don’t know yet. And I’m guessing you don’t want to invite them to your place.”  
“Well… If it’s necessary, I shall. I’m just not inured to being around that many people.”  
Aribeth tilted their head, “ _Six_ people?”  
“ _Eight_.”  
They sighed. “Are you staying tonight?”  
“No.”  
They straightened their back, “Look, what if I leave them here and go with you?”  
“With no one to guard your belongings?”  
“Tyr will guard them. And there’s a paladin in the group.”  
“Could be an impostor.”  
They were both losing their patience, with a difference being that Fenthick’s hands started shaking and he fluttered them even harder as if he tried to get rid of this sensation.  
Aribeth noticed that, “Fine, I’ll stay here. Just help me with the table.”  
“Certainly. My apologies.”  
“Don’t apologize. You need rest.”

Before Imoen and Ajantia ate their portions, the table was rotated and moved to touch two walls and one corner. The human paladin grabbed the chairs and placed them next  
to each other. Fenthick left in haste without a goodbye.  
Kagain glared at the door, “‘Twas a pleasure for him, truly.”  
Vissenvaib replied in a defensive tone, “Don’t.”  
“Wherefore?”  
“He’s kind of like me, I feel.”  
“Oh? I mean, a lot of various people look at objects instead of faces, but they’re not like you.”  
“There’s more to it, krasnyĭ.”

Aribeth showed the wayfarers a way to a bathhouse and warned them that guards checked customers for the Wailing Death’s symptoms. Vissenvaib appreciated the warning because a queue leading to the building was rather long. Still, there was a procedure Aribeth failed to mention: the customers with no symptoms had to stand fully clothed on a firm thick plank above a fireplace with little to no fire. Dense smoke didn’t produce any scent, but it made everyone cry and some people faint. Fans were waved to make the smoke cover a person evenly. Those very same fans also spread it all around the room.  
Ajantia, being the tallest of the six, squatted without explanation.  
Vissenvaib was the first one to enter the smoke. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe shallowly. She still coughed.  
“That’s enough, thank you.”  
She wanted to leave so quickly she lost her balance on the plank. Caught by Imoen, she apologized for screaming.

A stone bathtub they shared had various, irregular shapes in its shell; one could sit straight or lean back inside. There was a seat for very short, short, average, tall, and very tall customers.  
Even warm water and fresh herbal decoctions couldn’t relax the half-elf, who kept touching her hair and shoulders.  
“There’s some sort of unpleasant layer on me. Do you sense it as well?”  
No one answered.  
“No? A’ight… These two… Ari and Fen… They clearly cohabit, and we’re violating their privacy. We need to ask the dryad if we can earn any money with the outside world while staying here. You know… So we can move to an inn.”  
“That’s not our problem,” said Viconia.  
“Oh, please.”  
Imoen sank herself deeper in the bathtub, “It leaves a negative influence on a couple if it lives in almost complete isolation from others. Devotion is good, but it can be corrupted into obsession and social imprisonment.”  
“Oh, my goodness, Imû. It’s not about that. Ah, «that’s not it.» Look.”  
“You’re overthinking. You won’t sleep well because of that. Think about kitties.”  
Vissenvaib inhaled loudly to signalize her discontent. “Fine.”

And so our heroes left the bath, returned to Aribeth’s splendid house, prepared their bags and fell asleep; the night was silent like a mouse. Of course, the mage resisted slumber, turning, growling, shuffling feet; but when at last she drifted ‘way, she saw another vision-dream.

She found herself standing in a generic-looking room, with a desk at center and a single torch on the wall. She recognized the man from before; this time his legs ended with uneven stumps below his knees, and his hands were crimson, leaking with pus, his fingers fused together. Lying on the desk with no clothes or sheets, he was only capable of breathing, yet it seemed like he could pass away at any moment.  
Then, a new voice spoke, alarming her: “Were you really hoping you could maintain a telepathic contact with your siblings?”  
He gasped and murmured, “Excuse me?”  
“Were you hoping I would never learn about this?”  
“About what? Weren’t you supposed to dissect my chest or something? What’s this sudden talk about _assumed_ siblings of mine?”  
“Hush. Your petty lies would work only on that gullible half-mage, whom you couldn’t even manage to kill. You’ve been trying to send visions to Vissenvaib.”  
She felt a sudden wave of cold on her body.  
The voice continued, “I promptly destroyed those signals. They’ll never reach her.”  
_And yet, I’m hearing you talk right now. So, how did you overlook that one?_  
“Such a waste of the Harpers’ time, she is. She will doom them. And you had doomed her. And you got it wrong, the chest thing. I need you alive while I take a dive into your flesh.”  
She shook her head in disgust.  
“Are you looking for Bhaal’s seed?” asked the tortured man.  
“You came to this conclusion just now? Pathetic.”  
_Wait, Bhaal? The slain god of murder? That Bhaal? Wha’!?_  
“Both of you. Plain pathetic.”  
The man looked displeased with his situation, but he showed otherwise no signs of fear, panic, frustration, or anger. Quite the opposite, he closed his eyes, gathered his thoughts, and spoke again: “Say, do _you_ happen to have a sibling?”  
The voice didn’t answer.  
The man smirked, “You do, or used to. Which one of you…?”  
Vissenvaib couldn’t hear the rest of his question, but she saw him talking, and a pause was interrupted by that bodiless voice, now boiling with rage.  
“How _dare_ you. I would never treat her li…”  
The man smirked even broader, enjoying his tiny victory while it lasted.  
“Son of a whore!”  
A heavy club obscured the light from the torch. Vissenvaib hid her head between her bent arms.  
The man laughed, despite pain, “And you thought _you_ were imprisoning _me_? Now you’re stuck here with me until you succeed… _If_ you succeed.”  
“Shut it! Damn you, why won’t your jaw collapse!”  
“Figure it out. You have so much time. So… Your sister…”  
“S HUT UP!”  
“Did she moan?”  
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SAREVOK!!”

Vissenvaib jumped, sat up and pushed her sleeping bag away from her. She exhaled, began crying. She stood up and ran to the door. Outside, she curled up against a pillar.  
“You fool… You cretin,” she said aloud, “Why? Pshétch ty zabil Goraĭona… Ty khachĭel tozhé méné… Vits chémû? Wûû… wûwûûû…”  
In her loud sobbing she didn’t pay attention to the door opening and closing again.  
But then, she felt a warm blanket covering her back.  
“There, there,” it was Aribeth, with her soft, melodic voice, “Your nightmare has ended. You’re back in the world of the living.”  
“No… It’s not over. I made a mistake. I should have left Neverwinter, taken a boat…”  
“Life is but a gamble with the future. You can’t predict when regret will strike your heart.”  
“Well, _he_ is gambling with someone’s temper! Risking death! Taking painful blows!”  
“He?”  
“The leader of the Iron Throne! I have visions, and he was defeated by someone more powerful than him! I don’t know who that person is, but they wield terrifying magic that melts armour and breaks bones! And now he…!”  
“Hold on. Visions? You can see the past?”  
“Ever since I left Candlekeep, I do.”  
“Oh, dear. Could you tell me more about them?”  
“I need a handkerchief, though,” she sniffed.

Sitting at the front garden, Vissenvaib described her previous visions, noticed how gore increased in them with time, mentioned Imoen’s dreams, then digressed to tell Aribeth about Imoen, Gorion, and Candlekeep. The half-elf paladin listened with never fading attention, constantly giving nonverbal signals to Vissenvaib.  
“Dad understood what I was comfortable with. I didn’t have to look at him, I just nodded from time to time. Ĭad Vinĭa, my Rashemi teacher, also understood, although differently. I had to glance at her. Dad suggested that I glance at her nose. It’s easier. And she had a pretty nose.”  
Vissenvaib pressed her fists against her cheeks and squeaked.  
“She was awesome. Lawful but not too strict. Very forgiving, too. She basically forgave those children who tended to perform better during her classes. Brats who didn’t care… Uh… They had to start caring eventually. Otherwise, they were moved to another teacher. Oh, do I miss her.”  
“Sounds like you had a child crush on her.”  
“Please…”  
“No? A childlike, platonic crush?”  
“I wouldn’t dare. Dad had taught me about age gap.”  
“Hm.”  
“He taught me many things, even the topics that other people thought children shouldn’t know yet. He also explained to me why he decided to teach me about them. He made me aware of my flaws and suggested how I can overcome them. Although… his idea of a flaw differed from what my party perceives as one. Like, my tracing lines on a table surface? He allowed that.”  
“That’s not a flaw at all. You’re simply curious, interested in what your fingers can feel. Fenthick does something similar, in fact.”  
“Oh?”  
“He feels my earlobes when we’re alone.”  
Vissenvaib smiled broadly, “So cute.”  
Aribeth chuckled. “He is a cutie. But he’s also naive. Prone to being misled. I worry about him every day.”  
“Don’t tell him that. It might stress him out even more than he already is.”  
“Really?”  
“I mean, it did stress _me_ out whenever Gorion voiced his concerns about my future friendships, my career, and all that stuff. It made me doubt my skill of self-reliance. I told him, and he stopped. But he had already said too much.”  
“No mentor is perfect.”  
“One sentence stuck in me, word to word: «No one outside of these walls will accept you like Candlekeep does.» So when he woke me up in a middle of a night and told me we’re leaving the citadel, I cried in panic. He didn’t realize what frightened me; it wasn’t obvious to him, and I couldn’t explain, I cried so loud.”  
Vissenvaib pulled a collar of her nightgown, scratched her neck, and fixed a chain of her necklace.  
“Now that I think about it… He wanted to leave without Imoen. He knew Sarevok was after me, and he knew why. But he outright refused to tell me. That’s odd. And he said Candlekeep wouldn’t be able to defend itself forever, yet he wanted to abandon Imoen. My best friend. My _only_ friend. I don’t get it.”  
“It could be stress.”  
“Could be. Since we left in a haste. Could be old age, too.”  
“So, how did you convince him to get Imoen to join you?”  
“Oh, _she_ convinced him. My whine woke her up, and she said she would never leave my side.”  
“Truly, a great friend.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Are you wearing an amulet?”  
“Oh. I do. It protects me from evil spells. Gorion gave it to me on my fifth birthday.”  
Vissenvaib pulled the chain gently, releasing the pendulum from behind the gown. It was a tiny bronze owl with its wings spread out. The owl was molded in partially stylized and partially realistic manner, which fascinated her ever since she received it.  
Aribeth took a closer look; their mouth slightly opened in wonder.  
“Such a great attention to details… Must have been wrought by a master of their craft.”  
“I agree,” said Vissenvaib and, to her own surprise, yawned rather loudly.  
“Oh, dear. That one tooth requires removal,” commented Aribeth.  
“Aww ww, sorry you saw that,” the mage hid her face inside the gown, leaving her hair exposed to the nighttime air.  
“No worries, I also mistreated my teeth in the past. Would you like a cup of water before sleep?”  
“Mhm.”  
Vissenvaib stood up first, energetically despite the yawn.

After breakfast, Aribeth guided the wayfarers to the Hall of Justice.  
“Go inside and ask for Desther. I need to report to Lord Nasher, as he will very likely send me to supervise prisoners. We might not meet again until dusk if they cause trouble again.”  
“Will we be smoked here, too?” asked Vissenvaib, gazing at the temple.  
“No, but you may be asked to don your scarves like yesterday.”  
“Aye,” Vissenvaib marched towards the gates.  
Viconia almost hissed, “Could you wait for us, Vissen?”  
She did not.


	4. Not her best morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a mess. I wrote it in many chunks, overcoming depression and bad weather. I'm not satisfied with it, but I don't know how to fix it just now, so whatever.
> 
> You can skip the dialogue about taxes and resume at "V, you were interested in books".

Vissenvaib still experienced fatigue from her latest vision. She slept a little, and a low flight of birds foretold a rain. She felt that she could fall asleep while standing. Her left wrist, which she had twisted when she was seventeen, was aching as if the injury renewed; but it was just the weather.  
She wasn’t mentally ready to meet another stranger. But she had to, so she decided to rush it.  
Passing the sick and sisters in Tyr’s sacred service, she approached an old man in red, partially bald and fully wrinkled.  
“Greetings. I’m looking for Desther, a Helmite.”  
“That would be me, child,” exertion sounded in his voice.  
“That’s great. My name is Vissenvaib, I’m with friends, and Lady Aribeth sent us here to help you out.”  
“Are you a trained alchemist?”  
“Uh, no. I’m a trained and self-taught mage. But there are two clerics with me, and a paladin of Helm.”  
“I see. May I talk to them?”  
She turned around for a moment, “They’re coming right now,” she started waving her hand, “Braaan. Ajaaax.”  
So they both approached Desther, with scarves around their heads. Kagain and Viconia remained next to the entrance. Imoen stood in between, hiding beneath her pink cape.  
“May Helm bless this city, father,” spoke Ajantia with solemnity.  
“May He bless us all. Where do you come from?”  
“Waterdeep. I’m a squire on a mission, aiming to become a proper member of my Order.”  
“I see. And you, noble priestess?”  
“I fare from Seawolf, father.”  
“Oh, dear. You’re a brave lady for pursuing your duty. May your god bless you.”  
“I appreciate your kind words.”  
Desther straightened his back and rested his hands on his belt, “Follow me into this room to your right; we shall discuss our problems there.”  
Vissenvaib wanted to be sure, “Just those two, or am I also allowed?”  
He looked at her in a way she couldn’t interpret immediately. His neutral voice didn’t help her either, “You lead this group, I reckon, so the decision is yours.”  
“Aye. I’d rather go with you, then.”

In the next room, Desther asked nurses to leave, and invited the trio to take a sit on a bench, which was standing against the wall. He spoke quietly but without whispering, and the warriors obeyed that indirect suggestion.  
“Perhaps, I can entrust you with one task. The city is huge, and there is only so much terrain Aribeth and the dryad can cover each day. ‘Tis embarrassing but it must be revealed to your party: several beasts that were meant for our tests fled their captivity. They are very likely still alive, moving from a district to another one, adding to the chaos. Dead or living, they must be brought to us.”  
“What are we looking for?” asked Branwen.  
“A half-dragon, half-rooster, the abomination with petrifying bite. Small but deadly. Wandering all over the streets, biting the citizens, and disappearing in shadows. Naturally, there are more creatures out there, but not as threatening as the cockatrice. Once it’s caught, I shall tell you about the remaining ones.”  
Branwen nodded. There was something off about her breathing, but Vissenvaib decided to remain silent.  
Ajantia opened their backpack and picked up a wooden box with a metal hook securing its lid. They unlocked the lid and pushed it aside, revealing tiny sheets of beige paper and a charcoal stick, lying neatly in separate compartments. “Where was it spotted last time?” they asked, rolling the charcoal between their thumb and middle finger.  
“I think it was the Docks. Or not… I’m sorry, no, it was the Moonstone Mask. This damn thing keeps changing locations like gloves. Fortunately, it’s too weak to fly over the main walls of the city. Or too stupid.”  
“Where can we find the Moonstone Mask?” asked Branwen.  
“Uuh…” he exhaled, “I’d fail you as a guide. I’m not from here, after all. The citizens should tell you, though. ‘Tis a _popular_ place.”  
Ajantia wrote it all down. “We shall return with the cockatrice, father.”  
“I am certain you will. Take care.”

The trio left the room and reunited with the others.  
Ajantia spoke to Viconia and Kagain, “What Desther revealed to us should not take a form of a gossip and fly from the temple. Come further away from the entrance,” they encouraged them, “Tyr will not harm you without a specific reason.”  
“I trust you not, Helm’s d’nilok,” replied Viconia, although she did walk away from the gates.  
Kagain pondered, shrugged, and followed the dark elf. The party stopped at the northern part of the hall, behind a huge pillar. As the paladin was explaining the mission, Branwen turned and scanned the temple from her right to her left. Built from light grey stones; illuminated by sunlight entering through tall windows; barely decorated except for its floor tiles; supported by six columns, four of which stood in the west. There was a part of the hall accessible by walking up the stairs, surrounded by additional, much thinner pillars; that was the centre of ceremonies, with an altar, a storage for sacred equipment, and a water feature for divination.  
“How does one _let_ a cockatrice _escape_?” frowned Viconia, “That’s, utter, incompetence of the authorities here.”  
Imoen stuck her tongue out sideways, “Ya know, having fought kobolds in the Nashkel mines, I’m not even surprised at this point.”  
“Oh, don’t even remind me,” responded Vissenvaib, “Vick, you might be disappointed in the Surface Folk by _default_ , but try to imagine what it feels like when you were being taught for six _teen_ years how guards and militia are all disciplined, just, athletic… And then you enter the mines to find out the Amn lads can’t even defend miners from _k hobolds_.”  
Imoen continued, “And then people rely too much on individuals who may or may not be altruistic, spread glorifying legends about those outlaws – often falsified, mind ya – and the next generations push this toxic notion forward while the militia care less and less about their people.”  
“ _And_ , at the same time, those very guards are eager to arrest the outlaws who luckily _happen_ to be altruistic. Sometimes they do it out of racism, sometimes out of xenophobia; sometimes because they commit the same crime a criminal does so they feel subconsciously obliged to cover them…”  
“Lady,” a voice whispered behind the mage. She forced herself not to yell, tensing up muscles in her upper torso.  
It was a nurse, holding a bowl of blood.  
“Oh, I’m too loud, right? My apologies.”  
The nurse nodded and returned to their duties.  
“What’s that blood for?” Kagain wondered aloud.  
“Ah, it’s this pseudomedical rubbish human beings practice. They draw blood from a patient’s veins to balance out their fluids  or something.”  
“Eh? Why would a nurse of Tyr do that? Paladina, do Helmites draw blood like this?”  
“Nay. Although I would assume the medics have run out of pork blood for tests and now use…”  
“Huh, I guess that would make more sense. Right, V?”  
“Probably. I don’t know, both possibilities are… possible. We should set off.”  
They all nodded.

Imoen led the party along the Neverwinter streets to a small store, which stood just a couple of feet away from the bathhouse. Its wooden sign was rocking back and forth on metal chains as if welcoming the customers with a wave.  
A tiny bell rang, struck by the door. A merchant shut a drawer and returned to their desk. A peculiar merchant that was: an orc, except as tall as an average elf. A mole on their arm, a chip on their exterior tooth, their left forearm secured on their back as their customized robes allowed them to.  
“Welcome to Veteran’s Veracity. How can I help you today?”  
Imoen replied, “Perhaps you could begin by showing us your goods for we’re not familiar with your store.”  
“Certainly. Did someone recommend me to you?”  
“Nay, I just spotted the sign yesterday.”  
The merchant closed their eyes with glee, “My own work. I don’t sell them, though; necessity called me and I did my best to distinguish my building from the rest. Now, I do sell the following: exclusive armour, enchanted jewelry, spell scrolls and arcanabulae, regular books, and rare gemstones. I used to have exclusive weapons as well, but the demand decreased and now there are two pieces left on the wall behind you, with a huge discount.”  
Kagain’s experience made him ask, “How do you adjust the prices for customers from the Sword Coast?”  
“We have twelve categories of tax rate in Neverwinter. The discount value, however, undergoes no changes.”  
Vissenvaib raised her eyebrows, making them look like arches, “Sounds complex.”  
“It is. There’s no logic in it, too. The Lord simply sent scouts to examine store prices in Baldur’s Gate, and then his mathematicians analyzed the data and tried to create  
the standard of multipliers out of that. The less you think about it, the better.”  
Kagain nodded, “What are the multipliers?”  
“Four for subtraction, as follows: one and a half, four, thirty-six, sixty. Six for addition: a half, two and a half, three and a half, five, thirty-three, fifty-five and a half. Those numbers are multiplied by two and either added or subtracted from the local price.”  
“That’s ten categories, though.”  
“The last two are for exceptions, where we don’t calculate a price but take a fixed one from the Taxation Book.”  
“Huh. This… could be simplified.”  
“We know. Our guild sends requests to the Lord every year.”  
“Right, then. V, you were interested in books, weren’t you?”  
“Yyyes. I need theological works on Azuth, Mystra, Tyr, uh… Deneir… Er, Corellon… Oghma, since Curna is the same as Him… That, would, be, it.”  
The merchant picked up each book they named and laid it on the desk, “I can offer you Complete Faerûnian Pantheon by Neveranonyme, History of Mystra and Her Chosen Ones, same author, Abbreviated Elven Pantheon including Drow Deities by Trilfae the Escapee, Lies behind the ‘Tyrilmaterian’ Adjective by Rilim Eriach, Complete History of Tyr and Helm by Abela Alagondar, What Tyrians Ought to Know about Ilmater, also Abela, What Ilmaterians, repetition, about Tyr, again by Abela, and then there are more discourses on Tyrology, but less focused on the god Himself.”  
Vissenvaib forgot half of the titles she heard, so she walked closer to the desk and skimmed each book. It took her long enough for Imoen to purchase five quivers of arrows and ask about maps of Neverwinter.  
“By the Lord’s command, map trade is currently illegal,” answered the merchant.  
“That’s unfortunate. Did he reveal his reason behind the ban?”  
“He doesn’t want Luskan spies to buy them.”  
“Um… They could still sketch it by heart. Which would require more time, sure.”  
“ _And_ more spies. That gives the militia a greater chance of catching them.”  
The mage straightened her back, “Alright, I think I know. I would like the Faerûnian and the Elven Pantheon, as well as History of Mystra. Aaand, what are those other books? The ones about the religion, not the god?”  
“You could begin your lecture with Introduction to Tyrology by Eriach.”  
“Sweet. Add it to my list. Now, you mentioned spell scrolls. Do you have Summon Creature?”  
Viconia reacted immediately, “Hold on,” which made Vissenvaib tense her mouth and shoulders.  
She didn’t even turn to the Ilythiiri, “What.”  
“Why do you need that spell?”  
She walked backwards and lowered her voice, “Diseases are often spread by rodents. I want to summon cats and have them hunt rats.”  
“And have _them_ carry the plague in their bodies instead. Don’t do that today. Consult with de Tylmarande.”  
Kagain jumped up and pinched Viconia’s neck, startling her.  
“ How dare you touch me,” she hissed.  
“Look, apostate, it’s her will and her wealth, so _maybe_ don’t comment on her trade choices that affect only her.”  
“Stop that.”  
Finally Vissenvaib turned around, “Kagie, erkatam, Vicky’s right. I should have thought this through. Don’t provoke her, a’ight?”  
He rocked his head to the right and the left, “Aye, I shan’t touch her. But I’m telling you: buy that spell and summon one familiar. You’ll have a pet!”  
Ajantia curved their mouth, exposing a part of their upper teeth, “Forsooth, we don’t have enough stomachs to feed.”  
“Is that really a problem? V leaves decent chunks of meat on bones – a dog or a falcon would eat that without complaining.”  
“I’d fancy a cat, though,” said Vissenvaib.  
“Even better! How good is a witch without her feline support?”  
She never saw or heard him so excited before, which made her suspicious. Still, he defended her, so she decided to take advantage of that.  
“Yeah. Presnĭé! Sem charovnitsa! Tsheba mi kota! Can I have that scroll?”  
“Here,” the merchant put it on one of the books.  
“Great. Oh, wait, I would also need Stone to Flesh scrolls.”  
“How many?”  
“Uuh, twelve.”  
“I could sell you a book of twenty spells. Easy to tear off, and protected with pine cover.”  
“What’s the difference in prices?”  
“If one needs eleven scrolls and more, it’s cheaper for them to buy this book.”  
“Alright, the book, then. It’s better to be over-prepared than in trouble.”

After the trade, Imoen asked passers-by for directions to the Moonstone Mask. Upon the arrival, the party immediately realized the building in question, with various but toned-down colours, was a pleasure house. Yes, even Vissenvaib came to that conclusion, without anyone’s help.  
Imoen knocked.  
“We’re closed!” yelled a voice.  
“We’ve been sent by Lady Aribeth!”  
“Anyone with a working throat can say that! Bring her to the doorstep!”  
Ajantia joined in, “Lady Aribeth is currently busy!”  
“Then, return with her when she’s not!”  
The mage rolled her eyes, “Fiiine!”  
Imoen turned to her, “I could pick the lock, though.”  
“Don’t. We already have a mixed reputation in this city.”  
Ajantia pushed their helmet to their back, “Excuse me?”  
She went full Serious Business, “Folks… «Series of murders,» as Ari had said.”  
Viconia shrugged, “That’s not necessarily filled with a negative connotation.”  
“Oh my… Vick. We _fought_ all those bandits. Face to _face_. In an all-moves-allowed type of _battle_. A murder is when a corpse was _defenseless_.”  
“And they were defenseless because I am that strong and skilled. Well, I guess Ilvastarr, too.”  
“No, Viconia.”  
The cleric of Shar exhaled air between her upper teeth and lower lip, “You’re overthinking that one.”  
Vissenvaib boiled inside, ready to eject steam out of her ears. “N O. Only IMOEN can use that word. You’re not Imoen. And how am I supposed NOT to analyze every single word when everything they say, Kagain says, and YOU say, can have a hidden meaning which is supposed to back **stab me**!?”  
Her rage didn’t move the Ilythiiri, “Congratulations, you’re finally comprehending how this world functions.”  
“You’re wrong. This is how  YOU function; how your toxic, broken, enslaving _and_ enslaved society functions! Candlekeep was different! But of _course_ you won’t accept that as a legit truth! So! Maybe I should speak _your_ language? Maybe I should always send you to hunt with K AGAIN?”  
Viconia twitched.  
“Here we go. Fear and submission are the only things you react to. I used to think you wanted to run away from those, but nooo, you’ve brought those «virtues» along, and you just want to bow to another evil deity, alive. Go away.”  
“I refuse.”  
Vissenvaib doffed her own cape and shoved it onto dark elf’s head, covering her like an old piece of furniture at an attic.  
“Then, walk like this until I calm down. Imû, go to the prison thing and ask Aribeth when she’s ready to come here. We’ll be sitting here. Except me. I’ll sit over there and rethink my choices for this motherfffuh… forsaken party.”  
The mage walked away and sat on a crate, with her arms crossed, in a shadow of another house.

The quartet gathered under the Moonstone Mask’s wall lamp. Kagain slammed his hands against his thighs, sideways.  
Branwen started, “You caught her on a bad mood, indeed.”  
Ajantia fixed their helmet, “It’s not just her mood, methinks. One day you tell her you enjoy fighting by her side, yet another…”  
Viconia squinted, holding the cape and rising it to be able to see, “Your mistake is believing I were honest. Aren’t you a _paladin_? Aren’t you supposed to slaughter my kind?”  
“Normally, yes, but Vissen told me not to. «Bringing up our differences won’t help us defeat the Iron Throne,» her exact words.”  
“But the Throne is gone! Why are you still listening to her?”  
“And why won’t _you_ leave? You clearly despise our party.”  
“Because your bunch needs a proper leader.”  
Kagain made the “pfff-ff-fff” sound with his lips, “Aye, we need a biased drow to lead non-drows in a world of non-drows. Forsooth, thou art qualified.”  
Viconia pulled the cape downwards, locking it on her neck, “Shut up. I am more qualified than that daydreamer who had put us together. The show is over, hargluk. Why have you started sucking up to her? You’re feeling an urge to dine in her _scabbard_ or something?”  
“I’m feeling the urge not to die, you witch-doctor. Have you by any chance considered that you’re blocking her magic with your scoldings?”  
“No. She’s a weakling from the start, and she has reached her magical limits. Your fake play definitely won’t help her.”  
“How do _you_ know? Folks like her were my customers for four generations. How long have _you_ been on the surface?”  
“Long enough.”  
“Pitiful response. Ey, Branwen, say something!”  
“…I was certain Imoen was our leader.”  
The trio hid their faces in shame.  
“Rivvil… I’ve been calling Vissen our leader this entire time. How did you miss that?”  
“I assumed you were saying that on purpose. Because she wants to have a touch of control over people around her, although not too much. Thus, I thought you opposed her to weaken her confidence. But then again, if she’s not a good leader like you claim, why would you keep using that word to describe her? Isn’t that counterproductive?”  
Viconia released the cape from her double grip and lowered her hands. The cloth slipped from her shoulders; Branwen caught it before it reached the pavement.  
“Make up your minds, all three of you,” she summed up and left them.

Meanwhile, Vissenvaib was reading the scroll, her back bent like a bow, her ears almost perpendicular to the wall. Branwen approached her quietly and said nothing.  
Several moments later Vissenvaib emitted violet light of magic from her fingertips, activating the scroll. The paper disintegrated, becoming a puff of glistening smoke; the mage inhaled it and spread the remaining vapour all over her face with a slow movement of her hands. She sniffed once more and covered her mouth with her palms, her pinkies applying a pressure to block her nostrils. A comedically loud sneeze ensued.  
“Gods bless you with health,” spoke Branwen.  
“Spas,” she replied in Rashemi and pulled out a handkerchief. She gripped the cloth and shaped it like a primitive doll.  
The human cleric raised her eyebrows, “Why do you always wipe it away instead of…?”  
“Preventive measure. It had happened to me twice that I botched my study of spells when I sneezed, and then, I ruined it once after cleaning my nose thoroughly.”  
Branwen didn’t witness those events for they happened before she met the mage. She accepted what she heard with a simple, “Huh.”  
Vissenvaib squatted away from the crate, put an almost used-up candle on the pavement, and laid her hands on the dirty surface, keeping a foot of distance between them.  
“Azuthlian, theur tarine.”  
Nothing happened.  
“Theur cath.”  
Silence.  
“O Azuth, shyvowaĭ kota.”  
No response.  
“Oh, come on now. I need _all_ my bags, I can’t use one for the spell. Hhuuuuuegh, once again. Shyvowaĭ kota, _bez torby_.”  
A perfect circle drew itself and shone with magenta magic. Vissenvaib and Branwen had to close their eyes.

The Rashemi half-elf saw an ocean bed with a few fish, one of them completely transparent.  
_Oh, great, now the freaking DAY visions! Could you not, Sarevok?_  
Weirdly enough, the vision seemed to have obeyed her because it faded to black.

She opened her eyes and gasped. The magical light gradually weakened, revealing a round trap door where the candle stood.  
Vissenvaib stared at the item.  
She growled.  
She threw herself to the left, lying on the pavement.  
“Maybe I could rearrange my belongings and give you one bag,” said Branwen.  
“Maybe. But seriously, why are wizards limited like this? Why do they need items to cast some spells? It’s not alchemy. It’s just stupid! My mind is supposed to be the medium between this world and the Weave. But there’s even more bullcrap to this! I must speak! I must wave my hands! I can’t stutter! I can’t even sneeze! And I can’t be nervous! But how am I supposed not to be nervous? I’m not like you, I’m not like Imoen, I’m not…”  
She paused.  
The trap door started jumping.  
Vissenvaib sat up, her eyes big and round. Branwen grabbed her hammer and carefully opened the door, which popped out like a lid.  
A hole led to a thick branch with leaves unknown to the duo. On it sat a sleek orange striped cat with pointed ears and short fur. It appeared to be slightly bigger than domestic cats Vissenvaib was used to, but it didn’t matter because her mind was already melting with awe.  
The feline familiar locked their eyes on the mage, reaching their front paws to the edge of the hole. That was enough for her to start speaking yet another language: soft, palatalized, somewhat comprehensible but annoying to ears of some people.  
“Kitty… What a pretty kitty, oh no… What a cute pair of green eyes…”  
The cat listened with their full attention.  
Vissenvaib broke completely, “Meow… Mow…”  
The cat answered, “Meew.”  
Amused mage continued, “Mrrow…”  
The cat meowed again and jumped out of their realm, examining the half-elf.  
“Can I pet you, kitty? Can I scratch your chin?”  
“Maw.”  
She started slowly with one finger under their chin. The cat closed their eyes in bliss and began to purr.  
Meanwhile, Branwen put the door back to the ground and turned to the trio, who rejoined her to witness the result of Vissenvaib’s new spell. Viconia looked the most devastated, whereas Kagain lifted his chest with pride.  
“Well done, V. Here it is, your own Purrling.”  
Vissenvaib didn’t pay attention to him, stroking cat’s cheeks while avoiding their whiskers. She glanced at the pavement where the trap door was, but it vanished.  
A strike of enlightenment made her gasp, “Heeey, maybe all those doors I’ve been summoning are meant to be _opened_? Like, manually?”  
Viconia poked Branwen, took Vissenvaib’s cape, and covered herself with it.  
A bell in a distance rang twice, announcing that the morning was over.


	5. Two masks

Imoen ran from behind a building, slowed down, trotted for three yards, and stood, spreading her legs to the width of her shoulders. She took a deep breath and wiped away sweat with her hood. Having asked several citizens, she finally reached the prison.  
Its entrance was guarded by one officer and a dryad with no uniform. The freckled blonde with a ponytail and a forelock didn’t even need one: her green skin grew a bark-like layer on her torso, covering her entire back, abdomen, and most of her flat chest. She wore countless necklaces of stems and stalks, as well as a belt of lance-shaped leaves; all those garments were accompanied by yellow, honey-coloured, and orange flowers. The only human clothes on her were brown trousers and leather sandals.  
The guard fixed their stance as the human thief in her pink cape came closer.  
“No entry.”  
“I can wait outside, I just need to see Lady Aribeth.”  
“The Lady is preoccupied. Talk to the dryad.”  
Imoen recalled what she learned the previous day, “Excuse me, do you happen to be Halotin?”  
The dryad tilted her head, causing her earpiece to swing sideways. It contained a bent metal stripe, securely attached along the whole length of a helix; a thin chain hanging behind her ear; a small cage, sewed from wires; a bit of soil, surrounded by a metal basket; a stick with two tiny leaves, reaching out for sunlight, of which there was abundance inside the cage.  
«Helotan,» the dryad signed in Common. Pink tattoos shone on her hands.  
Imoen blinked in surprise, “Oh… Aaah, I can’t sign back, what do I do…”  
«It’s alright. I have one more charm on my scalp. You can speak casually.»  
“Neat. I’m sorry for remembering your name wrong. You see, my party and I arrived yesterday and met Aribeth. We’re helping her out.”  
«She mentioned a mage elf, though.»  
“Well, Vissenvaib always stands out, so she gets memorized first. She can’t help it.”  
«Where is your party?»  
“Waiting at the City Core. The Moonstone Mask won’t grant us entry unless they see the Lady.”  
«Uh, why the Mask?»  
“The cockatrice was spotted there.”  
«Again? Then, maybe we don’t have to interrupt the paladin at all. The Mask should recognize me.»  
“You said, «Again.» What was the last time?”  
«Two tendays ago.»

At the City Core, in proximity to its inner walls, Vissenvaib was sitting on the pavement, with the foreign cat resting under her chest. Branwen was examining her bags and moving items, switching their places. Ajantia was noting something down, perhaps an entry in their journal. Viconia stole the mage’s previous spot on the crate, still with the purpura cape covering her head. Kagain watched the cat peacefully.  
The human cleric spoke, “Do you have space to store this firebreath inducing mixture?”  
The half-elf’s ears twitched, “Oh, that one. Yeah, I can attach it to my belt.”  
“Then, I can give you one empty bag so you can carry your pet around.”  
She gasped quietly, “Yes, please. I wonder if Kitty will accept it, though.”  
“Depends on a cat. You won’t know if you don’t try.”  
Viconia murmured, “All it takes to distract you is some random midget tiger.”  
Kagain smirked, “Jealous?”  
“You can’t use on me the same blade I’ve just tried on you. The drow are prepared for such scenario.”  
“No, I mean, are you jealous that _you_ don’t own a pet?”  
“Pets are worthless. Slaves are worth towns. Some of them might even be irreplaceable.”  
“Slavery is stupid,” blurted out Vissenvaib, playing with the cat’s ear.  
“Thank you, professor Colnbluth. What’s next, «religions are a manipulative conspiracy,» or…? ”  
“You just answered your own question, Vick.”  
Viconia opened her mouth in dismay. Even her “hmpf” after the moment of silence couldn’t hide the fact that she was actually hurt.  
Kagain’s vicious joy was less subtle than previously, “You just played upon yourself.”  
Vissenvaib didn’t realize the weight of her own reply; she just wanted the Ilythiiri to stop complaining. She gave her a close helmet; she gave her dimming glasses, which she haven’t ever worn anyway; she took breaks at noon; she read a book on strategy; she learned new spells; she just summoned a cat when the dark elf dubbed her a weakling; and yet she _KEEPS COMPLAINING. And what’s worse, she  BROUGHT UP SLAVERY. Is it her self-defense or something?_  
And sure enough, DeVir came back with a defensive question, “So that’s how you stop distrusting your gods, Vissen?”  
“Sod off. Azuth didn’t answer because I lacked an ingredient for the spell. I summoned Kitty my _self_. No one helped me. In fact, it turns out I might not need help at all. I need trust, sure, but for my _self_ , for _my_ skills. And you’re worsening your own situation, surnar d'Shar.”  
Viconia hissed.  
“Speaking of worsening one’s situations… Kagain.”  
“Yes.”  
“My ability to interpret facial expressions is impaired, true, but I could tell you were pretending back at the Veteran’s store.”  
“Can we discuss that somewhere… far away from the drow, basically?”  
“No.”  
“Then, my explanation shall be only partial.”  
Vissenvaib sighed, “Listen. I’m certain you can show me support without acting as someone you’re not. I don’t know how ‘cause I’m not you, but that «ev en better» back there was definitely not you. Just figure it out. Also, all of you, if you guard me but not others, you’re going to break the party’s offense and defense.”  
“And what’s that one about?”  
“Branwen. All five of us fought in disperse while she was recovering from her headache, vulnerable. She hasn’t cast Sanctuary for months, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t cast it yesterday. Like, sure, krasnyĭ had been trained to fight giants, fine. But what is _your_ excuse, Ajax? And Vicky?”  
Viconia started, “And what is Imoen’s e…?”  
“I’ll ask her when she’s _present_ , smartass.”  
The dark elf lowered her head.  
Ajantia nodded, “You are right, I neglected the possibility of danger for our companion, blinded by the heat of the battle. ‘Tis a lesson for me to remember when another threat comes.”  
“That’s what my ears like to hear. Viconia?”  
“There’s no obligation if there’s no order.”  
Vissenvaib gestured vividly, waking the cat, “Tchart. You need an _order_? And what will _that_ do? How many times have I given you an order just to have you ignore it like the proud, stubborn _queen_ you are?”  
She didn’t answer.  
“You know what? Find an inn and stay there for a couple of days. I’ll even pay for your room. Just sit there and meditate or something.”  
“As you wish,” Viconia stood up, gave the mage her cape back, and walked away very slowly.  
Branwen glanced at the cleric, “You know where the paladin’s house is?”  
She signed in Undercommon, even though no one in the team knew the meaning of the sign.

Helotan and Imoen walked through a gate leading to the City Core. The thief maintained an eye contact with the dryad, even though that wasn’t required for the translating charms to work on her.  
«You see, what happened yesterday was that an intellect devourer took over prison guards and their head jailer. Under the beast’s influence, the jailer unlocked almost all cells. It wasn’t easy to stop him.»  
“Oh, dear.”  
«Lady Aribeth told me to infiltrate the prison while she would be chasing the fugitives. Quite intriguing, how she behaved… She disarmed one guard, stared into his eyes, then shuddered, stepped back, and climbed onto her mare. Her face seemed to say, ‘I am _not_ going there.’»  
She emphasized the sign standing for “no” and grammatical negation by sliding her hand from right to left in a horizontal line, as opposed to signing “no” with her fingers only. Imoen associated that move with shoving something unwanted away from an individual.  
«It took me a whole evening to reach the lowest level of the facility. Exhausting task.»  
“I understand that you killed the devourer.”  
«It had no intention of surrendering.»  
“Were you protected with anything? A talisman, perhaps?”  
«A mere potion, and I had to buy it myself.»  
“Mm,” Imoen expressed concern, “I’m not looking forward to facing the cockatrice.”  
«That’s usually good news. Those who do want to fight it are looking for a temporary death, a short release from diseases of their minds. It’s the same with basilisks.»  
The duo turned left.  
“Here they are. Vissie and the rest. Although… our drow seems to have walked away,” said Imoen, as she approached the adventurers, “Visska?”  
“She’s meditating,” answered the mage, then glanced at the dryad “Ah, Helotan, right? Just a moment, I’ll stand up and greet you properly. A’ight, Kitty, we’re going up, ready?”  
Imoen’s confusion led her eyes to Vissenvaib’s left side, where she saw an orange cat chilling inside an open bag. And indeed, the half-elf rose her bottom and straightened her legs as gently as she could. The feline companion noticed a change of sensation under their paws, but they didn’t panic at all; they looked to their left to make sure they were being lifted, and continued lying inside their small hammock.  
The thief chuckled, “Its name is… Kitty. Of course it is.”  
“That’s just temporary,” she walked closer to Helotan, “Do dryads shake their hands?”  
«Bowing is preferred.»  
It took her a moment to process the charm, but once she did, she bowed with her right leg resting behind the left one, toes touching the cobblestone, then simultaneously spoke and signed back, “Poz dravĭam tébé. Sem Vissenvaib.”  
Helotan smiled, «It’s always a pleasure to meet someone who can sign a little bit,» her smile weakened, «Wait… You’re _Rashemi_. With a Thayan Dwarvish name.»  
She hid her neck by rising her shoulders, “Uh, yeah, you’re correct, but jumping straight into politics might not be a great idea…”  
«Because of the dwarf over here?»  
Kagain interrupted them, “I ain’t Thayan, never was.”  
“Hush. No, just… Just no.”  
«Alright, then. I apologize for bringing that up.»  
“Good. Can we go to the Mask now?”  
«Certainly,» Helotan marched towards the building’s door and knocked.  
“We’re c… Wait, is it you folks again? Oh. Welcome,” the wooden barrier opened and a lady stepped forward, “Have you been sent by Aribeth?”  
She lied, «Yes. I was told you saw the cockatrice again.»  
“Sadly, yes. Come inside, all of you.”

The lady guided the wayfarers and the dryad through the hall, the main room, and another hall to an incredibly small bedroom, where bed was the only furniture present. With no warning, the party was flashed by a victim: a male halfling, turned to stone during sex. Vissenvaib thought of a joke but restrained herself from sharing it.  
“Any witnesses?” asked Ajantia.  
“Our janitor and an employee. The janitor chased after the thing, and the worker… he’s still in shock, so you should interrogate only her.”  
“Can we talk to her now?”  
The lady turned her head and yelled, “Amne! Quor!” next, she waved her fingers from Vissenvaib towards herself, “She’s not skilled in languages.”  
“Oh,” the mage focused, heard footsteps, and faced the skinny janitor, who was missing a couple of eyebrows on her right side, “Well met. How brave of you, chasing after such a dangerous animal.”  
Amne’s voice was hoarse, “No need to be all posh, girl. ‘Specially since I can tell your language is performative rather than natural. Ya say I’m brave? For spanking a rooster with my broom? I had fought drows and ogres, not to mention the Illuskan, so shut it.”  
Vissenvaib clenched her jaws and hid behind Imoen. She was too ashamed to apologize.  
Kagain understood the third sentence and bits of the fifth one; it was enough for him to grasp the general meaning behind Amne’s speech. “We are sorry. She fights well but speaks badly. Where is the beast?”  
The janitor glared at the dwarf, glanced at Branwen, and spoke to Helotan, “Are they all like her?”  
«No.»  
“That blonde looks like a priestess. Can she cast the language spell?”  
The dryad repeated Amne’s question.  
The cleric walked closer to the janitor, then started looking for soot and salt, “It may take a moment but I should be able to cast it.”  
Ajantia clicked with their tongue, “We could have started with _that_.”  
Vissenvaib replied with a whine. Imoen patted on the mage’s shoulder.  
Kagain trampled away from the crowd and complained to no one in particular, “Is this necessary, though? She can tell the dryad or point with her finger.”  
“Could be a punishment,” whispered Vissenvaib.  
“For everyone? Humpf! Public shaming should be sufficient for all those who didn’t commit the deed. A mass punishment, even an indirect one, does the opposite of teaching.”  
She turned to Kagain, keeping her voice low, “And I’m telling you from my experience that public shaming is stupid.”  
The fighter’s upper lip twitched. “Elaborate.”  
“What’s to elaborate? It didn’t work on me, and I felt terrible. Gorion switched teachers, and I learned better with the new one,” she exhaled, “Please, today’s not the best day for explaining things. It’s just easier to say that something is stupid.”  
He hummed in agreement, “Alright, then.”  
A blue light distracted them, as Branwen laid her right palm on Amne’s shoulder and put her left hand on her own chest. The light turned white and sank into the women.  
Branwen spoke, “The spell is active. Where have you seen the cockatrice?”  
“In the very room where it bit the customer. Bitro was smacking it with a pillow. Poor lad, never seen him so frightened. I tried to grab its neck, but Bitro hit us once more and the beast fled. I forced it to the right, that is, further into this hall. Follow me.”  
The hall ended with two doors, both of which separated the wayfarers from an intense stench.  
“The left latrine was open because our worker was leaving it. She ran to the right. The beast jumped into the cesspit. It’s connected to the sewers. That’s it. The cockatrice is gone, again.”  
Helotan summarized by gesturing what Amne spoke. Branwen squinted repeatedly, her mind littered with redundant information.  
Imoen raised her hand, “And where does the waste go inside the sewers?”  
Amne replied, “The sanitary alchemist’s. The Docks. That’s where waste becomes water and returns to the sea. But it doesn’t mean the monster chose that path. The Core, Blacklake, the prison, and a part of Beggar’s Nest are all connected to that facility.”  
Branwen locked her fingers on her shoulders, “So, it can basically pop up at anyone’s chamber of ease. Fantastic. Ajantia?”  
They readied their box with paper sheets, noted the districts mentioned, and nodded.  
“We need a map of the city’s sewage system. Or whatever they have, a plan, a list of families that are connected to sewers, anything like that.”  
They wrote it down and said, “I doubt we will be allowed to see such documents.”  
“Aah, right, the map ban. Still, we should try. Maybe Nasher will offer a compromise.”

Branwen thanked the janitor, Vissenvaib finally apologized (while stroking the cat’s head), and the party left the Moonstone Mask. Back at the spot where they waited for Imoen, they discussed if they could approach Lord Nasher and how they should convince him to reveal the information so significant to them.  
In the end, they returned to the prison. Helotan went inside to talk to Aribeth.

The bell struck three as the sun stopped climbing the sky. Tall, curly clouds appeared on the horizon. Viconia could see them from a window leading to her room.

The inn where she decided to stay was almost empty. Its owners, two elven brothers and a halfling woman, have been painting walls of the main room, starting with the place above a coal black fireplace. The Ilythiiri noticed where the fresh paint ended and ash stained layer began, and imagined how dirty the wall used to be.  
“Ennadun, we have a customer,” spoke the lady, adding detailed leaves to the fireplace with a thin brush.  
One of the elves jumped, his thick glasses mimicking the jump with a delay, “A customer! Greetings! I’m coming!” he hopped all the way to a desk and grabbed a quill. An open book was covered in childlike scribbles. “Let’s see, it’s…” there was a timepiece right next to the desk, “Eleven-two, er, eleven-ten. Your name?”  
“Viconia.”  
“Family?”  
“None,” she lied.  
“How many rooms and beds?”  
“One, it’s just for me.”  
“One-one,” Ennadun spoke aloud while writing, “How many nights?”  
“Two, for the time being.”  
He turned all the pages in the book to uncover a table, neatly drawn on the very first page, “Sixteen Pieces. We charge extra for dinners when requested.”  
She counted coins and put them on the desk.  
Ennadun bent to unhook a key, checked its wooden tag, wrote down its number, and handed Viconia the item. “Thank you, thank you! Talk to my brother or his wife whenever you need dinner or have a complaint. Talk to me if you would like to extend your stay.”  
She nodded.  
“Oh, your room. Take the stairs to my left.”  
“Gladly,” she walked away from the desk.

Of course, she had a complaint: Ennadun himself. However, she already knew it was unwise to let the owners know. Vissenvaib had told her months ago.  
That other Rashemi mage also lectured her about this.  
So did Imoen.  
All her life she was convinced surface civilizations suffered no imbeciles, just like the Underdark. But there they were, taking care of sheep, assisting merchants, crafting pottery, Shar knows what else. And then, there were people like Vissenvaib: neither children nor adults, definitely not teenagers; self-reliant to some extent, but not completely.  
Her norm was not theirs. She could assassinate Ennadun, but that would end her own life as well. If not the militia, it would be a vengeful mob.  
This society valued what she had been taught to despise.  
Viconia kneeled, rested hands on her thighs and lowered her head.  
“Shar. Nightsinger. Lady of Loss, who gives purpose. Once again, I need Your guidance.”  
_But why should She guide you? If She did, you would stop praying to Her._  
“Nightsinger, give me strength, for I am doubting yet again.”  
A chill sneaked into the room. A distant creaking suggested that a wind vane started spinning.  
“I forgot why I fled.”  
_Whol sreen’aur._  
“I don’t know anymore… I hate this place, I hate the people, I hate its virtues…”  
_Except for safety._  
“Now I can’t go back… But I can’t stand the surface world either… My mask was too fragile, it shattered… I can’t pretend…”

“So can’t she.”

It wasn’t Shar’s voice.  
And it wasn’t Lloth.

“You’re unable to pretend because the foul teachings have corrupted you. She’s unable to pretend by birth. Yet, you expect her to easily adjust to your will.”  
Viconia stood up and unpacked Shar’s holy symbol from her bag, “Who are you?”  
“At the moment, I’m nobody. She resonated in me by accident. Her power was meant for _someone_. Someone _else_ , but it leaped into me instead. Now I’m connected to her mind and by extension, to this unfamiliar place.”  
She almost dropped the symbol, “She’s outdone herself, fucking faern. Leave me, now.”  
“As you wish.”

Silence. Except for the wind vane.

Viconia fell on her knees, this time out of vigour-draining fear. Shar’s symbol slipped away onto the floor. Her shallow breath wheezed and whistled.  
“Fuck. I called her a weakling, and now there’s some long lost soul which has regained sentience. How do I deal with this? How the _fuck_!?…” she gasped, “She shouldn’t have found me. She shouldn’t have helped me. I should have died. Because now, even when she’s just told me to go somewhere else, somewhere where she’s not… There’s something! The innkeeper! The stalking ghost! Fuck!”  
She grabbed her head, painfully pulling a couple of hairs off.  
“Yes, I wanted safety. I wanted to sleep knowing that no one will prank me, scar me, kill me. But I didn’t want to challenge myself. I didn’t want to reject my teachings. Because that was all I knew. Never question the drow. Never question the Spider Queen. I didn’t know anything else.”  
She was rocking back and forth at that point; she didn’t notice.  
“Then, I was told about You. I realized there is something else. There _is_ a lack of danger. I just had to find it. I found it… _But I fucking hate it!_ It’s her and that pile of scum she calls her _party_! I’m too weak to defend myself! So weak that this! Damn! Fool! Protects me! In the woods! And when I _actually_ defend myself, this once, it’s wrong! Because the fucking blonde was exposed to the fugitives! Like I fucking care! I hate her! I hate this place! Shar! Take me to Your realm! I can’t take it…”  
She collapsed on the floor, weeping, unable to take another breath.

It started raining. A heavy curtain was banging on the roofs of Neverwinter.  
Branwen, Ajantia, and Kagain shielded themselves. Imoen joined the paladin under their shield. Vissenvaib stood close to the cleric and covered Kitty with her cape.  
The cat just gazed into the distance and allowed the sounds of rain to sing their lullaby.  
Meanwhile, Helotan exited the prison, «You will ruin your gear.»  
“Nay,” answered Kagain, “It’s enchanted against corrosion.”  
«Ah. Still, the rain is warm. Why won’t you enjoy it?»  
“We are. The way we’re standing. Anyway, what did Aribeth say?”  
«We’re supposed to go to the Castle and ask for the linking assistant. He will take our suggestion to Lord Nasher and return with his decision.»  
“On paper?”  
«No. Orally. The assistant will give us five minutes to explain the situation.»  
“Great,” the mage mumbled to herself.  
«Thus, I immediately suggest that Vissen shouldn’t do the speaking.»  
Ajantia nodded, “I believe I know what to tell him. I won’t even need five minutes.”


	6. The first Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time it's Vissie who experiences a meltdown.

Despite the downpour, the adventurers weren’t allowed into Castle Never. The assistant opened a door placed within a much broader gate; he was standing right behind the door-frame, listening to Ajantia and holding an hourglass.  
Vissenvaib ignored her surroundings. She made it to the afternoon; nothing else mattered. “What a long, busy day,” she thought.  
The assistant nodded and excused the paladin. The door closed.  
Branwen balanced her shield on her protected head.  
Helotan smirked, «You’re still positive about avoiding this rain?»  
“Aye. It may feel warm now, but that won’t last, at least not for human beings.”  
She nodded slowly; her smile disappeared.  
“Anyway…”  
«Yes?»  
“Where do you come from?”  
«The Kryptgarden Forest.»  
“Oh. How have you ended up here?”  
«I volunteered.»  
“Huh?”  
«Lord Nasher’s call reached Waterdeep, and soldiers went to the woods, asking for a volunteer among dryads. Here I am. I donated my hair and a chunk of my bark. Then, Lord begged me to remain here and assist Lady Aribeth.»  
She froze her hands, recalling the past. Her right ring finger was twitching. She sniffed and returned to her revelation.  
«He said, “Aside from the militia, who are already busy maintaining peace and catching spies, we have no one. Nurses are busy. Common people either locked their doors or are taking care of their family members. One of the Nine has already succumbed to the plague. And all our volunteers… who were supposed to take your place… were slain last month.” »  
Kagain raised his head. Ajantia’s mouth shrank in sympathy. Imoen swallowed.  
Vissenvaib’s ears fluttered like wings, as she decided to pay attention, “Wha’, slain? Why?”  
«Aribeth explained later that the volunteers were gathered at the academy, the place she believed to be the safest. There, they trained to fight and learned basic medicine. Alas, at the day of their graduation, unknown assassins emerged from the shadows and killed all the volunteers. Right in front of her. None has been caught, they vanished.»  
Branwen laid her hand on her armoured chest, trying to grip the material.  
The mage stared at Helotan, “Like, shadowdancers?”  
«Who knows.»  
“How? What, they all appeared exactly where their targets were?”  
She spelled, «Y-E-S.»  
It shook her so much her eyes escaped to the orange cat, “Damn.”  
Ajantia scratched their neck right under the jawline, “Branwen, what you said yesterday might actually be correct.”  
The cleric replied, trembling with awe, “Definitely. The foes of this city, some kind of arcane professionalists, may have crafted the curse and hired stalkers to prolong the city’s struggle.”  
Kagain tilted his jaw before speaking, “Which _means_ they will come after us eventually.”  
Vissenvaib’s eyes almost exploded, “By gods, no.”  
“ _By gods_ , don’t piss yourself. We ought to jump back to the temple or the store. They might have scrolls of raising dead.”  
“Kagie, the whole Sword Coast lacked that scroll! I doubt it they even exist anymore!”  
Branwen held the shield above her head with her right hand, so she could gently embrace the mage, “It will be alright…”  
But the half-elf snapped, “Aha, yep, tell that to all the families who either have been waiting in a line with their beloved person already in process of decaying or have been told their relative won’t return,” she shut her eyes; first tears ran quickly down her cheeks, “Not to mention those who can’t afford a resurrection… Ilmater, has life _always_ been like this outside of Candlekeep? ‘Tis either the iron crisis, imprisonment of miners, serial killers, kidnappers, assassins, bandits, spies, evil magic…”  
Her speech became incomprehensible half way through, so she gave up and wept.  
Helotan’s neutral expression remained unchanged. Branwen examined it with a concern.

The linking assistant reappeared several minutes later; to Helotan’s surprise, he gave Ajantia a sealed envelope.  
“Open it at home, memorize, and burn.”  
Instead, the party went to a tavern. Imoen chose a table in a corner and nonverbally commanded which seat should each person take. That way, Ajantia and Branwen, with their tall and averagely broad bodies, obscured the view for other customers. The paladin waited for a waitress to serve their meals. Then, with no suspicious moves, they broke the wax seal of the envelope and read the message.  
“It’s… It’s only one detail,” they turned the sheet of paper so that Imoen could read it.  
A sketch presented the alchemist’s facility and what dwelled right below it: five tunnel entries. The anonymous artist wrote above each sewer tunnel: “C One,” “C Two,” “Blkl,” “Bgg,” “Pnn.”  
Imoen chuckled for a second. “Ya know what, keep this.”  
Vissenvaib raised her finger, finished chewing, and replied, “No, we have to burn it. It’s already a stretch that we’ve broken the first task.”  
Kagain rolled his eyes, “Just copy the information if you really wanna burn the original.”  
«Please, surely you can learn this hint by heart,» signed Helotan.  
Ajantia sucked the air through the right side of their mouth, considering all suggestions. Finally, they wrote a note:  
_Recognize it by its wyvern. 1, 2, L, G, N._  
They hid the note and folded the letter in half, “‘Tis fine, I shall burn the message. Indeed, we’ve abused Lord’s trust to the point where any further abuse might lead to our exposure.”  
The mage grinned artificially.  
“We should discuss another matter. Do we begin our search tonight or tomorrow?”  
Branwen glanced at Vissenvaib, “I would go tomorrow. Not because of the light, we can produce enough light ourselves.”  
“It’s because of Vissenvaib.”  
“Aye.”  
“Forsooth, she’s whined more than my mind can deal with. ‘Tis not her fault, obviously. ‘Tis human limits.”  
“I’ll try to whine less,” she sounded offended and caught that, “Sorry. I’ll control myself.”  
Ajantia nodded, “How about you, dwarf, dryad?”  
“We all need rest. Tomorrow,” said Imoen.  
“I second that,” responded Kagain.  
«I won’t join you, no matter what time.»  
The paladin smiled, “That’s alright. You’ve helped us greatly anyway; you have our thanks.”

The bell struck four. The sky above wet Neverwinter started gaining its orange highlights. A sunset moved closer and closer, teasing all folk and fauna.  
The adventurers parted with Helotan and visited Aribeth.  
This time, Fenthick stayed, sitting by the table and analyzing a pile of papers. Vissenvaib sat at the other end. She saw hexagons and extremely long words.  
“You came to talk?” he asked.  
“Nay, I’ll be reading,” she spoke quietly.  
“Goo’.”  
One more noise distracted him, but it was just the cat.  
…  
Oh dear, it was the cat.  
“Don’t her to table.”  
Vissenvaib raised her eyebrows, but she understood. She gestured to the orange companion with her palm separating their head from the surface of the table.  
The cat nodded.  
An entire galaxy blew up in the mage’s mind. _Kitty nodded. They learned to nod by watching us. Or did they? I mean, they were napping, right? How. Even. Whoa._  
She realized her mouth was open. She closed it to look conventional, but her resulting expression turned out to be even less conventional. She touched her cheeks; it was her never failing solution to restore a neutral state of her facial muscles. _There we go._  
She remembered she wanted to read the books she has bought.

At dusk, she has advanced through one third of History of Mystra and Her Chosen Ones. She already knew from its prologue that Neveranonyme was more of a commentatour than a historian. She could only condemn the title choice and read on.

_Many gods targeted foresaw their deaths, which raises the question whether making them mortal was necessary at all. ^My view on the controversy can be found in my earlier work.^_  
_Mystra was one of those deities, and throughout centuries, she shared pieces of her soul with mortals in a variety of methods. Unfortunately, most of the methods disregarded the Chosen Ones’ consent; Sammaster’s case serves as an exception from her path. Even Elminster cannot testify that his experience with Mystra hurt him not; what kind of notion is sex-shifting an apprentice in order to “strengthen his bond with magic,” when rare individuals would have embraced such opportunity, freeing themselves from enchanted girdles, and grown to perform their duties better as a result?_

“You’re questioning gods,” Viconia’s paraphrased sentence rang within Vissenvaib’s mind.  
The paragraph continued:

_The Seven Sisters could not consent either, being a part of Elue’s body at that time; moreover, Elue’s willingness is also questionable since “History of the Chosen of Mystra” claims her to “had been reluctant” to seducing Dornal, despite merrily agreeing to the goddess’s plan. Additionally, Elue was losing her vigour each year, yet Mystra kept producing her Chosen Ones and destroying the very vessel that hosted her, breaking Dornal’s sanity (everything happened unbeknownst to him) and pushing him into killing his own wife._  
_Does the price – and so called reward – of serving Mystra come from the One who Endures or the Willing Whip?_

Vissenvaib closed the book with shaking hands.  
In her opinion, deities were not allowed or even able to succumb to human impurities. They were to shine upon worshippers as prime examples. To show the way of perfection.  
She gave in to Neveranonyme’s commentary because it resonated with her own beliefs.  
She had trusted Mystra throughout her school years. What now?  
Has Mystra changed? Does she regret the poor treatment of her followers? Does she regret anything? Or are gods monsters with no moral spine? No better than humans except able to live forever?  
What about Helm, Tyr, any positive god? Because that would mean they show the way of perfection _to themselves first_. Because they themselves are not perfect to begin with.

“What a long, busy, god-awful day! And it’s gonna end with a vision with Sarevok because OF COURSE it’s gonna end with him being in pain and me being too far away to help him! And neither good nor evil deity will move a finger! A CITY is being murdered right now, and they refuse to ‘choose sides;’ what a disgrace! I hate this day!”

Her thoughts echoed within her chest. It was an unnatural sensation.  
She stood up and went outside, trying not to run. Her legs led her to the garden and dragged her to grass, blooming with daisies and clovers. She couldn’t feel the dew; there was no warmth and no cold, no softness and no harshness.  
There was the echo, repeating “what a disgrace” over and over.  
And then, a deep, malicious voice spoke:  
“ **At last.** ”  
_W HAT._  
“ **Despite the protection, here I am.** ”  
_Oh no. Stand up and fly to the temple. Come on, just move the leg… Any leg… Or an arm? Anything? By Ilmater the Broken God, JUST STAND! YELL! WHY WON’T YOU SCREAM?!_  
“ **Answer me, Vissenvaib.** ”  
“Answer my _clit_ , demon!” she replied in thoughts.

Her breath waved a daisy flower, which tickled her cheek. She was back. Yes, she could feel a flower, grass, dew, a bit of soil, her own clothes, _yes, yes yes… Now, hear._  
She heard the purr.  
“Kitty…” she spoke to the companion, “May I pick you up, Kitty?”  
They answered with a soft, worried meow.  
Vissenvaib sat up, grabbed the cat, placed its front paws on her chest and hugged it gently. They tickled her neck with their nose and whiskers. Their fur smelled positively cat-like  
_I’m back. Holy crap, I’m back._

_And I need answers._

She fell asleep like heavy rocks in depths of vast and dark blue sea; her hands outside her sleeping bag; her thought, “Come forth, the vision-dream.”  
The room was new, smaller, grey; the desk was made of rock. The man was thin, muscleless, and bearded Sarevok.  
This time he had been turned around by his kidnapper. His hands were no longer hands, burned and fused beyond recognition. His hair, glued with dirt and grease, covered his forehead and facial tattoo.  
The Rashemi half-elf sat on the floor, crossing her calves. Determined, she rested her hands on her hips.  
“Sarevok.”  
Neither a whisper nor a soft, goodnight speech replied, “…Vissenvaib.”  
“So, you can hear my words.”  
“Yes.”  
“What am I?”  
He shut his eyes as if in pain, “You’re asking _now_?”  
“I heard a voice in my chest, saying, ‘Here I am, despite the protection.’ It was deep, could be a man’s.”  
“Could be Bhaal.”  
Her first thought focused on Sarevok’s pronunciation of the god’s name; it wasn’t “bohl” or “bahl,” and she had difficulties recognizing phonetic aspiration. No, it was “b uhhahl,” as she originally assumed it to be pronounced.  
Her second thought stroke like a lightning.  
“No. He _also_ … Now I get it. You and I… Our parents… are _victims_.”  
“That’s your interpretation. I saw my heritage as an opportunity.”  
“You saw an actual god of mass murder talking inside of you as an _opportunity_. Instead of a call for a priest or a doctor.”  
“Why, I did see a priest. He refused to tell me anything. Even before he died.”  
“Of course. What else did I expect to hear? He got you in your childhood, didn’t he?”  
He blinked, “…I’ll say, yes.”  
She started gesturing, “Ah, right, he _chose_ you in your childhood. Sorry, but I can’t be all ‘diplomatic’ about a goddamned deity of murder. I say, he _got_ you. Deceived you into evil.”  
“Fine.”  
“And you thought you could become him.”  
“Yes.”  
“Just like in tales,” she shook her head in disappointment, “What else did he say?”  
“To find my siblings.”  
“And have a cup of tea with them?”  
“Obviously, no. The implications were clear to me. Especially when I found the prophecy.”  
She slapped her own thigh, “The What now?”  
“Alaundo’s prophecy.”  
She hung her head. He waited.  
“Really. All of this because of _fancy poems_ folks call prophecies. That’s why I despise them: they never _tell_ the future, but rather provoke and manipulate people into _creating_ one in their desired shape.”  
Her gesture at the “creating” part was the most vivid one Sarevok has seen her make so far. “But it did tell the truth. ‘A score of progeny,’ with ‘chaos flowing’ through their veins… ‘A blood drop trapped in the amber of their eyes, a coal on their arm…’ ”  
“Yupyup, ‘cause _thine eyes_ clearly hold that drop from the prophecy…”  
He chuckled, although it resembled a cough, “Good one, mage. No, my eyes glow golden because I did answer his Call.”  
“Huh. I would have thought they should be red. Or blue.”  
“Because you don’t know the prophecy well.”  
She replied with disrespect, “Please, I was busy reconstructing _my_ heritage with my teachers.”  
“And?”  
“I have yet to conclude it in Rashemen. I wonder if it’s worth it, though. And if I go to Thay? Will I make it through? They’re monsters like Bhaal and the Whip.”  
“I don’t know, I think they’re pretty rational.”  
“Rational slave collectors.”  
“Right.”  
Then! A lock sounded in a distance. Sarevok knew that melody very well, with all its notes and pauses.  
“Bodhi.”  
It caught her off guard that he was terrified.  
“Fly,” he exhaled.  
“Huh? You think they could see me?”  
“I _think_ you won’t bear the sight.”  
“Damn it,” she stood up and looked around, “I’m sorry. You should be on a gallows, not here.”  
“Why, thank you,” he mumbled.  
Vissenvaib closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against her temples. _Leave_.

She found herself underwater, somehow capable of breathing.  
A voice spoke to her, “How do you do?”  
She inhaled without patience, “I will do well if you’re not Mystra, lady.”  
“I’m not. She outlived me.”  
“Oh. Forgive me my manners. Latest day… was a catastrophe to me.”  
“I could sense that.”  
“Oh! Wait, is this the ocean bed I saw earlier?”  
“ ‘Tis not an ocean, dear lady.”  
Vissenvaib exposed her teeth, “Ih… Well, how could I know, I haven’t swum in the ocean yet. Except for the ocean of books, but that’s not water.”  
The voice giggled, and it felt as if rays of sunlight were taking a dive.  
“Is it a sea bed?”  
“Yes.”  
“Are you somewhere in this sea?”  
“Yes. Deep under the sand, my body has been turning into a fossil. I stayed there and felt nothing, not even the passage of time. But today, your power reached me here, and I can think again.”  
“I see. Sorry about that. I’m figuring out how to improve my magic.”  
“I know that much.”  
“Mmmp. What else do you know?”  
“There’s a divine soul in you.”  
“Sadly, yes. What else?”  
“You are barely using it.”  
Her ears stood alert, “Serĭosna?”  
“Yes.”  
“Like… Not even when I summoned Kitty?”  
“ ‘Twas only you.”  
She inhaled through her happy, broad smile, “THAT ME! Alé nûmer! Sem zedolna!”  
The voice laughed again sincerely.  
“This is great! I should return to studies, then. Which spell should I introduce myself to? Aah, wait, I still have those other spells to figure out…”  
“I’d suggest that you rest.”  
She froze in space. “Oh. Right. I _am_ sleeping, technically. Huuuh…”  
“Take a seat at the bottom of the sea. I shall help you rest.”  
Vissenvaib allowed herself to fall slowly like dandelion seeds. She sat comfortably and started playing with the sand, grabbing it, watching it slip away in a form of a dust cloud, throwing it aside, burying her right hand and setting it free… She repeated all those activities over and over because it felt nice on her palm, and because – how obvious, yet fascinating – sand behaves differently underwater.  
Meanwhile, the voice spoke, “Centuries ago, there was an adolescent girl with a backache. She was born with a curved spine, and as years passed by, she could manage working on her parents’ field for a gradually shorter time. Her family reckoned that the girl should be taught a different craft so she could still support her relatives.”  
“One day, the girl was sitting outside, eating vegetables and enjoying the warm, sunny weather. Unexpectedly, she noticed a hare under the fence. The animal was watching her carefully with its big, shiny eyes, and taking a step after another step towards her. Mesmerized, the girl did nothing; it was the first time she saw a living hare. The big-eared hopper got close to the girl, close enough to snatch a carrot from her bowl of vegetables. The girl giggled, and the hare leaped away with its snack.”  
“She told her parents about the encounter, and father clapped his hands, inspired by the anecdote. ‘My child, you could be farming rabbits for fur,’ he said. But the girl shook her head, ‘I’m not sure if I can watch them being slain and skinned.’ ‘Then, we shall get one of those very fluffy rabbits. They can be shaved and looked after for even more shaved fur. Consider it, Sweetie.’ ”  
“The girl spent two days thinking until she agreed. Her parents found an artisan in a neighbouring village and thus, the girl learned to calm rabbits down, shave them, and assemble the fur for tailors. After her training was complete, the family purchased four mountain rabbits, young enough to serve long and old enough for their first shaving.”  
“The girl couldn’t stop herself from squeaking for the rabbits were gorgeous. Adorable white clouds, hopping around and trustfully rolling on the grass; their eyes like polished gemstones, their noses bouncing up and down with each breath they took… ”  
The voice paused because Vissenvaib imagined the rabbits from the story and hid her face, articulating high-pitched vowels of joy.  
“But wait, you need to hear about the first shave.”  
“ Woh, poor little bunnies were probably confused…”  
“Ha, if only. The first rabbit’s gaze made her feel like their traitor. It seemed to say, ‘Why did you do this, human?’ She kissed its head multiple times to apologize.”  
“Bwooooooooooh…”

The vision went on, as the voice provided more stories, very detailed and heartwarming. Vissenvaib started wondering if the voice was actually the farm girl, but she didn’t dare to ask.  
She woke up gently, feeling fresh morning air from an open door and windows. Other wayfarers were still asleep. Branwen was snoring.


	7. A shot in a million

She sat up, donned her yellow shoes, took her arcanabula, stood up and walked to the table, where Fenthick was still analyzing his papers.  
He realized how late it was: so late it became early.  
“Dear gods, I was supposed to…” he grumbled, massaging his eyelids and eyes.  
“Oh no,” whispered the mage.  
“Great. Now I have to drink coffee. Bleh.”  
“I can brew it for you.”  
“Thanks, but I’d rather make it myself. There are so many nitpicky details in my personal procedure…”  
She smiled, “Uh-huh, mine wouldn’t taste the same.”  
He took a glance into her eyes, then on her mouth, both cheeks and forehead. The mage looked only at his eyes and noticed all the tiny movements of his eyeballs.  
“You have the same problem I do,” she continued proudly, “You don’t look at people’s faces but specific parts of their faces, and it feels unnatural.”  
He moved his head an inch away from her, “How…?”  
She chuckled, “Sorry, I’m just excited. You know, to finally meet someone who shares my struggles and all that.”  
He nodded. A corner of his mouth twitched twice and a smile followed, “Forsooth. And when you look at someone’s eyes for too long, it feels like your own eyeballs gain sentience, right?”  
“Yes. They’re tense and weary, and… Wyyyiil, I need a word,” she covered her mouth.  
“Ah, don’t worry about it. Sometimes words are too difficult and, in the end, not worth seeking because the sounds articulate your feelings better.”  
“I know, right? But I have that luxury only when I talk with Imoen.”  
“Well, obviously. That’s what friendship is. Hey, sit down, I won’t bite you just yet,” Fenthick stood up and approached a cooking utensil, “I mean, I bite figuratively.”  
“Ah, that’s useful. I knew a child who bit literally.”  
“Poor thing. I used to slap my colleagues when they upset me too much. Uh, would you like a leaf infusion?”  
She took a seat and pondered, “Huh… Do you have any kind of fruit syrup?”  
“Orange syrup.”  
“Oh, oh, then yes.”  
He giggled and opened a cupboard.

Imoen frowned and pulled the sleeping bag over her face. Others were still asleep.  
Fenthick returned to his seat with a mug of kaeth and a cup of leaf beverage. It wasn’t the Kara-Tur delicacy and Vissenvaib realized that when she saw the copper red hue of her drink.  
“Is this… that Zakharan infusion from needle leaves?”  
“Uh, no. Moon elves brew this drink from… ky-alura don tra. The bleeding leaves, as they’re called here. I, don’t like the Common name.”  
“I can see why. So… Do you descend from moon elves or have you just adapted their custom?”  
“According to my parents, I do come from moon elves. But it doesn’t matter anymore.”  
“Ey,” she found that offensive.  
“I mean, if your origins matter to you, I won’t force you to change that. I’m just glad I’m here, with friends, my own house, and a profession. I don’t need anything more.”  
“Uh, wha’ ‘bout Aribeth?”  
He grinned, “She’s the friend. Romance is a special friendship.”  
Her head swayed from side to side, with her right eyebrow up and the left one tensed.  
Fenthick blinked, “Maybe you’re able to build a secure romance on lust and nothing more, but I can’t. Every intimate gesture I share with her is an extension of my friend-like feelings. My hands give care and affection first; desire comes when it wants to.”  
“Interesting.”  
“What does romance mean to you?”  
“I don’t know. It’s difficult for me to keep my friends around, like… They get exhausted with my presence. So none of them, excluding Imoenin, stayed long enough to agree for a kiss. And my first strike of love… was poorly aimed.”  
“Oh, no.”  
“The thing is, I pay more attention to ladies. Lads are… keĭ, but ladies appear to be more competent at life, for some reason.”  
He wasn’t familiar with the adjective, “ ‘Keĭ?’ ”  
“They’re decent. No offence intended.”  
He hummed a giggle, “I understand. You have flair. And your first love didn’t.”  
“Exactly.”

The word “flair” had an additional, euphemistic meaning in Faerûnian languages, originating from Chessentan and spreading through Chondathan. Naturally, it took centuries of subtle changes from one context to another, but the noun grew from “passion” in general to “passion towards a person of same sex or gender.” Many used “flair” in both those meanings to advance their conversation and hint their preferences at the same time.

Vissenvaib smiled without tensing the eye muscles, “So, Neverwinter knows about flair?”  
“Aye.”  
“Do they know about beltshifters?”  
“Very few. Mostly from literature.”  
“I see,” she tapped on her spellbook, “It’s always different when you can give something a name, as opposed to describing all the characteristics over and over. Sure, you have to learn about the name, memorize it. But it’s quicker afterwards. For example… Ah, maybe I shouldn’t expose them… Still, I spent minutes explaining to them the things I do, swinging my leg when I’m sitting, always eating with a fork and all that stuff; they just said, ‘I shifted myself.’ Done. I know the name and what it entails, and they can focus on something else.”  
“Mmm. Maybe someday, newer generations will give us a name. Although… I’ve never even thought I would need a name for my… quality of being.”  
“Other than ‘being unusual.’ ”  
“Yup.”

In an inn room, Viconia opened her eyes. As far as she remembered, she passed out on the floor. How did she end up inside her bed, tucked in and without boots?  
One look at the end table helped her at guessing. A crystal jug of water with decorative bulges was waiting for her with a matching glass.  
“The elf has spare keys.”  
She found the boots to her right, standing evenly close to the bed frame.

After breakfast digested in the adventurers’ bellies, they went straight to the Docks.  
Surrounded by a tall metal fence with a repeating motif stood a wooden house with a hay roof and moss filling up chinks. Atop rested a wind vane: a thin pine plank shaped into a wyvern. An attempt at climbing the fence would mean dealing with metal thorns securing the top. No grass grew on the private yard; there was just a wooden cover of a maintenance hole.  
Instead of pointing at the house, Ajantia took a glance long enough for the adventurers to decipher it.  
Kagain noticed a problem, “Where’s the gate?”  
Imoen stepped forward. She took a couple of seconds, rushed to the structure and grabbed an angular knob. The gate, visually merged with the fence, opened sideways. Vissenvaib, impressed by the design, rose her eyebrows and slightly pushed her lower jaw forward.  
The human thief entered the lot and knocked on the door. She waited. Repeated the knock. Examined the cover. She deduced the maintenance hole was broad enough for everyone in the party, although the dwarf would have to take off his backpack before descending and reclaim it from teammate’s hands underground.  
“I hear nothing. Visska?”  
“Nishĭo. Let’s just close the gate and go to the sewers. They don’t have to know a thing.”  
Imoen spotted two guards sixty yards away, “Not yet.”  
The mage glared at the sky.  
“Er, nevermind, they’ve walked behind a building.”

A ladder led them down, a dry tunnel to a slippery cavern. Five entries to their right, one to their left. There was a thin stone way to walk upon, with gaps reserved for “water”falls.  
Vissenvaib was resting her right hand on the wall while treading carefully, “Uh, no, this is bad, I should be the last,” she retreated.  
Ajantia switched with her and reached the first tunnel entry. They gazed inside. Then, they spread their legs, stepping with the right foot onto a stone across the gap. It took balance and right timing for them to release their left foot and continue forward.  
They broke silence when they looked into the centre tunnel and downwards, stopping their head at an acute angle.  
“Um… There’s a piece of impurity on the path, and a rooster footprint on it. Seems recent.”  
“Where does it point to?” asked Branwen.  
“Into the tunnel.”

As the party was going further into the middle tunnel, it walked over countless pipes of average girth. Vissenvaib paid extra attention to them, constantly worrying about the nasty possibility that could happen to her and Kitty.  
At some point, the pipes changed their position, laying their ends on the path, staining it, and even clogging themselves in process. Everyone wondered how Neverwinter decided to solve the problem for its architects didn’t modify the length of the pipes.  
Soon, they saw the answer: on the other side stood a worker in an apron, wearing a mask shaped like an eagle beak. They were pushing feces, with a shovel, from pipes into a sewer stream.  
Imoen began, “Excuse me,” waited for the worker’s attention, “have you seen a cockatrice?”  
“What’s cockatrice?” their accent, especially vowels, differed from the manner in which previous Neverwinter citizens spoke.  
“A lizard rooster.”  
“I no rooster saw. I here six o’clock, no rooster.”  
“I see. Thank you,” she smiled gently.  
Our wayfarers pressed on, noticing how the tunnel was growing thinner. They met another sewer maintainer.  
“Cockatrice? There was chicken footprint on crap clump. Tossed it away just recently. Sorry about that.”  
“It’s alright, you didn’t know we would need a visual clue. Our gratitude anyway.”

Eventually, the tunnel ended with a smooth concave surface, from which six more pipes stuck out.  
“Di’… Have we missed a crossing somewhere?” Vissenvaib gestured calmly and gracefully.  
Kagain answered, “Nay. There’s a ladder somewhere behind us, leading to a street.”  
“I noticed that one. What I mean is… All the waste goes to those five tunnels? That’s it? I’ve heard of sewers that resembled labyrinths. Of sewers that were used for evacuating soldiers. What is _this_ , then?”  
“A work of idleness, perhaps,” chuckled Ajantia, “Or limited fundings.”  
Then! Unexpectedly, a shriek reached them from above. Vissenvaib screamed, gasping; Kagain yelled, frightened by the mage’s reaction; Kitty meowed angrily.  
“By Dugmaren.”  
“Vybatch. Oh dear…”  
The screams from the street continued. Vissenvaib turned around and advanced almost like a professional racewalker. Almost.  
“To the ladder. And I know, I’m trying, to compromise between speed and accuracy.”  
“I’d rather you compromise with your side tickles,” Kagain passed Imoen, “Threetwoone,” and raised the half-elf.  
“Meep!”  
“Mowrreowr…”  
She found herself sitting on the dwarf’s upper back and shoulders. The feline companion jumped from their bag and climbed up her robes.  
“Ow, ow, ow, I’m sorry, Kitty, ow.”  
They made an eye contact with her, clutching the material with their paws, “Mow, meewr, rowruh, mreer, mror.”  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry…”  
They stopped, their ears pointed backwards, their fangs out.  
“It’s something I can’t really control, even though I’m aware of it… I’m sorry… Please, I’m already at war with Vicky…”  
“It doesn’t understand a word, Vissen,” murmured Kagain, trotting along the stone way.  
The cat took a glance at Vissenvaib’s eyebrows, ears, and mouth. They dropped themselves onto fighter’s helmet and mage’s lap. Next, they twitched their front leg and smacked the dwarf’s cheek without looking.  
“Oi!” it stung him a little.  
They prolonged a hiss and returned to the Rashemi’s chest. Having calculated the odds, they jumped up onto her left shoulder. She tensed up. The cat sat on her nape with their front paws on her hair.  
“Help,” whined Vissenvaib.  
The screams from earlier seemed to be following them, catching up with them, passing ahead of them. A metal cover rang, lifted and thrown onto pavement. Kagain spread his arms and started slowing down; so did Imoen, Branwen, and Ajantia.  
A human with masculine features, wearing expensive, decorative clothes, fell into the sewer, feet, knees, forearms onto the stone path.  
“Aua,” they wept.  
“Good morning,” blurted out Vissenvaib.  
The nobleperson looked at her, “Stay low, neck-crackers! C- Ck- Cockatr _eys_!” their accent slipped.  
Kagain approached the ladder, “ _You_ stay low. We’re armed.”  
“Um, kras…”  
“Go, V!”  
She grabbed the rungs and stood up on his shoulders with a great difficulty, “I’m going! The tunnel though! The hole!”  
“I can see it! Now, up!”  
The mage rushed up the ladder to the surface. She crawled her way out of the maintenance hole to the point when she could support herself on one leg and both hands. Next emerged Imoen, who had enough balance in her to climb with her feet on the rungs when the ladder ended for her hands. After her Ajantia pressed their hands against the pavement and rose high enough to sit on it, place one foot on it and make a literal stand.  
Branwen hesitated, staring at the clouded sky.  
Kagain knocked on her vambrace, “Look, I’m too broad for this exit. They’ll need you.”  
She nodded.

Meanwhile, Vissenvaib ran stiffly because of Kitty on her nape, “WHERE’S THE COCKATRICE?” she yelled to no one in particular.  
“Qui! Aĭuto!” replied a human in a long, bright dress; they pointed to a creature which was flying over militia guards’ heads thirty yards away from the half-elf.  
She extended the thumb and the middle finger on her left hand, drew a curve and declared, “Sleep!”  
A violet ray with red midtones hit the beast’s head, reflected weakly and disintegrated.  
Vissenvaib kicked the pavement, “Pésot match! Imû!”  
The cat shook their head and jumped away from their caretaker.  
Imoen readied her shortbow. Paying attention to the guards and houses within her range, she launched an arrow. The cockatrice dodged it immediately.  
“A’ight, how about Magic Missile!” the mage pointed her pinky and index finger. Oval violet projectiles darted without a miss. But the creature felt and showed no pain as it kept flying out of folk’s reach. Even worse, it decided to flee along a crossing street.  
Imoen tried again. The second arrow grazed behind the beast’s wing membranes.  
This time Vissenvaib pointed her right ring finger, sprinting as fast as she could.  
“Flemerroh!”  
The spell misfired, puffing a single, one foot long flame.  
She was losing her patience, pushing herself to run faster. No one was in her way, leaping aside or hugging buildings nearby.  
“HOLD ANIMAL!” she yelled with her left thumb and index finger pointing at the flying bastard. Was it a cry for help? Was it an attempt at casting a druid spell?  
Out of nowhere, a clay vase made a contact with the cockatrice. It dived two feet down and tried to regain the previous height. And yet, the half-elf didn’t take the opportunity, startled by pieces of the vase and avoiding them abruptly.  
Imoen’s third arrow pierced through a wing bone. The beast shrieked and hit a stone sculpture attached to a fountain. But it wasn’t knocked out. It stood on the pavement and raised its crest, waving its healthy wing repeatedly.  
Vissenvaib jumped over broad, descending stairs… She found herself out of breath. She felt a pressure in her head and chest. Each inhale was loudly vocalized.  
The cockatrice saw its moment and jumped.  
Only to be caught from behind. Kitty sank their teeth into its neck, high enough so it couldn’t defend itself from them.  
The mage threw her hands in terror, “NĬÉ!”  
Imoen switched to her knives, tiptoeing down the stairs and towards the creature, looking for an exposed spot. But it kept resisting, its claws constantly threatening its hunters.  
And then.  
A pebble blocked its throat. A dim blue light was visible inside the struggling mouth. It lowered its legs and wings; only eyes expressed panic. That was when Imoen put a blade between its beak, placed the second knife way below Kitty’s grip and pulled it through the neck, beheading the beast.  
Vissenvaib fell on her thighs. Gasping for air, she looked behind.  
Both Ajantia and Branwen took their helmets off, red from running. The paladin was wielding their sword; the cleric was holding two more shining stones.

The cockatrice’s beak was tied together. Both the head and the body were frozen with a use of a spell. Imoen was carrying the prey while walking; cold didn’t bother her much.  
The party had agreed that Ajantia would return to the Docks to rejoin with Kagain.  
Branwen was hugging the cat, her tears still fresh on her eyelashes. Vissenvaib was stroking Branwen’s head and gazing at the cockatrice. Membrane on its wings bore dozens of holes – signs of its previous fights with the citizens.

The trio and the cat entered the light grey Hall of Justice and walked to the right. They could already see Desther and Aribeth standing next to a door; they kept a distance of three yards from the duo, waiting for them to pause their conversation.  
But they did not.  
The man pressed his thumbs against his fingertips and shook his hands, “Can’t you see that’s started reoccurring sooner than before?”  
“I _do_ see,” she replied in anger.  
“Then, why do you press on?”  
“Because I’m not utterly incapacitated. I can assist Lord Nasher…”  
“In brewing kaeth, maybe.”  
“No. Sir,” emotions closed her glottis, “If not Lord, then Neverwinter needs me.”  
“Yes, but it needs you at your best, child. Constantly. And it shows that being at your best wears you down. So what that you’re helping today when you’ll need a tenday of recovery?”  
Aribeth locked her eyes on the wall.  
“Talk to Nasher.”  
She turned around, stomping. Vissenvaib looked at her leaving the hall.  
_Being at your best wears you down. Same with me. Poor lady._  
“Ah, our Seawolven cleric. Bringing good news, I hope?”  
The mage glanced at Desther. No smile. No frown. No concern. No disgust.  
“We’ve brought the cockatrice. Vissie has frozen the corpse.”  
Imoen reached out to give him the body and the head.  
He nodded, “How did you manage to get close t- Ah, I see a broken wing. Still…”  
“I threw a Magic Stone into its throat,” admitted Branwen.  
Desther kept looking at the severed head, “You knew about the nerve that freezes those monsters in place? You were taught well.”  
_He doesn’t seem impressed._  
“Excuse me, I shall deliver the demon,” he opened the door and went inside.

Both Imoen and Branwen were paid two hundred Gold Pieces. They wanted to leave but Vissenvaib intertwined her fingers and stepped forward.  
“May I take a moment, father Desther?”  
“Certainly.”  
“What’s our next target?”  
He blinked, “Tomorrow. You earned some ale or whatever you drink to relax.”  
“A’ight. Tomorrow morning,” she smacked her lips, “Have a good one.”  
He nodded once as she backed off and joined her companions.

Kagain and Ajantia met the trio in front of the Hall of Justice.  
“The owner was very chill, actually,” said the paladin, “Staring at us from the window while we were leaving the sewers. The hole _is_ meant for maintainers to use when they need a specific equipment to take.”  
“And it didn’t move him much that we were hunting the cockatrice,” the dwarf added, “Decades in bodily filth must have twisted him.”  
“Nuh, it had to be something else,” commented Vissenvaib, “Anyway, let’s find a tavern.”  
Kagain smirked. Of course he did.

Ash planks decorated walls of a tavern. A stuffed squirrel was yelling in petrified silence, gripping the edge of a counter.  
Kagain sat on a stool next to the counter and remained there. Branwen chose a table and discussed with Ajantia and Imoen which seat each wished to take. Vissenvaib joined them last because she figured she should clean Kitty’s mouth. (“Mleh mlyeeehrr,” complained the companion.)  
The mage had a clear view to a tiny stage without curtains, as high as two stairs. Sipping cider, she was listening to a performance: a dark elf was playing a fife.  
A soft, slow-paced melody didn’t bring anyone to tears, nor did it encourage customers to dance with their significant others. It just existed as a background for burping and gossipping.  
What surprised Vissenvaib was that the musician wore vivid, colourful clothes as well as makeup, which she could see when the Ilythiiri closed their eyes. Such stoic and simple music, and yet, there was overabundance of shades surrounding the artist: orange shirt, sleeveless turquoise jacket, violet ruffle around their neck, thick crimson belt, turquoise shoes even… And their curly cloud of hair was dyed ink blue from its ends to the middle of its length.  
Without a second though, the Rashemi stood up, picked up two coins from her pouch, walked to the stage and left the money to the musician’s left. They didn’t notice or sense her, continuing their concert.  
But other customers did. Imoen could feel it how they stretched their backs, cleared their throats, shuffled their legs.  
“Maybe ye should have waited,” whispered Imoen when Vissenvaib returned to her seat.  
“With what?”  
“Yer gratuity. It might be illegal.”  
She moved her eyes up and to the right, “Uncommon, maybe, but illegal? Why? I’m not bribing.”  
“Ignorant outlander,” someone snapped far away.  
The melody ended with no traditional outro. The artist looked around, spotted the coins, took a handkerchief, picked up the money with protected fingers, and stood up.  
“I must return them,” they spoke solemnly.  
She couldn’t believe it. With a sigh, she returned to the dark elf.  
“I didn’t mean anything ill,” she whined with her ears lowered.  
“Then, acquire a book.”  
The advice ached like an insult. Vissenvaib nodded helplessly and left the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hacking the history of English language to be able to use "okay" xP


	8. Ground-breaking

She stopped walking at a decorative square with a thick tree at the centre. The cobblestone had been placed with care, allowing the plant to keep its roots where they chose to be. People were resting on benches around the tree. In fact, there was no free space to sit on. With no hesitation – and not a single concern about other citizens’ reactions – Vissenvaib placed her buttocks on pavement.  
She took a look at the cat in the bag, their eyes partially open, their tail swinging slowly.  
“How are you, Kitty?”  
They mewed softly. The half-elf meowed back and reached her right hand out to pet their head. She glided her fingers, scratched their neck, traced a finger from their nose bridge to forehead, and tickled their cheek, paying attention to whiskers. The purring companion licked her fingertips whenever they had an opportunity.  
Vissenvaib giggled, but sadness still showed on her face.  
“I hoped I would be more useful today. Instead, I slowed my team down, embarrassed myself, and woke you up.”  
“Mrr-eeh.”  
“Well. You’re a cat; you’ll forgive me as soon as I give you dinner. Folks are more complex. Their pride gets hurt. Their boundaries are crossed. It’s not easy with people.”  
“Moh.”  
“Candlekeep was something else. Its habitants… seemed to understand my mind processes things differently. Children yelled into pillows. Teenagers never bullied me. Adults apologized for assuming what was obvious to me and what wasn’t. Teachers spent extra time with me when I needed it, and left me alone with a task when they knew I could do it. And everyone praised my singing voice. I wanted to perform for Oghma priests; that was supposed to be my adult career. And no one protested. It was all settled ahead of time, father and I met the priests…”  
Her voice broke; she pressed her left hand against her lips. Kitty left their bag and squeezed between mage’s belly and thighs, then stretched with their front paws on her chest and snuggled their head under her chin.  
It helped her swallow the bitter feeling and speak again, “I’m wondering, whether Candlekeep has always been like that… or Gorion influenced them all, you know, preached to them. He was a monk; he probably knew how to explain such things. I don’t. I keep trying, like I told Bran once that I treat aduldhood like school tasks. Which it’s not. Whenever I think I know what it means to be an adult outside of Candlekeep, I ruin it all and need Imoen’s help. She has no life of her own because of me. _And_ because of Sarevok. I hate this.”  
A noise of a shoe against dust caught the Rashemi off guard; she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings until Imoen stood right behind her.  
“Why’re ya sitting on the pavement, silly?” she smiled from above.  
“Oh-eh-All benches are taken,” she held the feline therapist, “How much have you heard?”  
“Nuthin’. I figured it was reserved for Kitty. How much time do ya need before ya return to the tavern?”  
“Uuh… Ten minutes? Maybe fewer.”  
“Got ya. And please, sit on a bench. Look, this lad over there is leaving.”  
  
Meanwhile, at the tavern, the adventurers finished their first glasses. The Ilythiiri bard had resumed their play.  
Ajantia spoke to Branwen, “To be capable of sprinting for that many yards, I would have to shed my armour first. Indeed, the ankheg armour appears to be superior.”  
“That’s why it costs so much. Still… what would you have done in my place?”  
“Risk it. I didn’t know about the nerve you’ve mentioned. Who taught you about it?”  
“I read the newest treatise. I also know how to stop basilisks thanks to it. You know… to avoid petrification.”  
They nodded.  
Kagain jumped off his stool, “You want seconds?”  
The paladin counted their money, “Order a meal. Anything roasted.”  
“They serve geese.”  
“Splendid.”  
“What about beer, though?”  
“I’ve had enough. Branwen?”  
“I’d like a keg of Vilhon Cider.”  
  
As Imoen returned to the group, crowds of customers poured in, yelling, slurping, burping, and requesting songs. The change confused Vissenvaib so much that she stood frozen right at the entrance, blocking others. Branwen rushed to her and led her back to the table.  
The dark elf moved aside as another bard, a hobgoblin, sat on the stage with a lute in their hands. Stomping rhythmically, they played to an irregular metre; the Ilythiiri sang and separated stanzas with fife solos.  
  
__

_“Lo, to remember Her lessons and name_  
_Lost in the waters gone salty from tears_  
_Guide and the Matron who Reason endeared_  
_Guard and the Mentor, the sweetest Murdane_  
_Skin like oiled pine and Her hair licorice black_  
_Skill of a diplomat, knowledge on minds_  
_Voice of both practical and abstract kinds_  
_Veil of mere peasant with spindle and rack”_

Vissenvaib carefully rose her ears. Despite only one line of description she could see in her imagination messy morning curls surrounding the deity’s golden brown cheeks, dark eyes examining a distaff… And then it hit her: salty waters. The sea. A peasant trained in sewing. The voice. The Voice.  
She focused all of her mind on the lyrics, filtering out the noise of mugs, chairs, customers and chatting. Especially so because she knew nothing about Murdane.

__

_“She chose to ascend to enrich gods’ wits_  
_Chose to lift up just above mortal soil_  
_Chose to teach others resolve folks and broils_  
_Chose none but Helm when She needed to sit_  
_But how can a maiden know logic and law?_  
_How can a peasant know craft and debate?_  
_How can disabled one bash and exhale?_  
_Lo, you should use your own brain and not jaw”_

The mage blushed, not expecting the ballad to be that explicit. How interesting, though, that the goddess was the one choosing a lover for her own relief.  
Still… Why does she have to learn about Murdane from a song and not the very books she read at Candlekeep? _Does Ajantia know Murdane? Gotta ask._

__

_“Yet, there are gods that reflect precious words_  
_As did Lathander who thought He knew best_  
_Melting all ice, He did rivers outwrest_  
_Bursting with liquids, they drowned folks and herds_  
_‘Oi,’ spoke Murdane, ‘What’s the vision you see_  
_That makes you them slaughter, my worshippers dear?’_  
_He answered not, only mumbled unclear_  
_Thus forcing Reason to face Umberlee”_

_“Queen of the Depths craved for new place to nim_  
_Spotted Murdane wearing robes and two combs_  
_Summoned great waves, tall as trees, rich with foams_  
_Spat at Her, ‘What kind of god cannot swim?’_  
_Reason spoke back, ‘Let my people escape_  
_And rescue their culture; then claim your fresh gift’_  
_But Wavemother roared, laughing loud, and with drift_  
_Pushed the Negotiator down deadly waves”_

_“Six horrid storms stroke Murdane into sea_  
_Dawn rose above Her, the triumph of fools_  
_She lost equanimity, seeing Her doom,_  
_‘A queen of all bitches you’ve proven to be’ ”_

The music slowed down and went quiet. The Ilythiiri lowered her head and repeated as if to themselves:  
“A queen of all bitches you’ve proven yourself to be.”  
Then, the calm melody resumed for one last stanza. The hobgoblin was no longer stomping, and they were playing fewer notes.

__

_“Thus died the Mentor, the wisest Murdane_  
_Mistress and Matron who Reason held dear_  
_Lost in the sea where all stars wept white tears_  
_Now go, and remember Her lessons and name”_

The ballad concluded with four notes from the lute. The audience clapped and returned to its drinks.

Meanwhile, at the inn owned by a halfling and an elf, Viconia opened the window in her room and threw herself back onto the bed.  
She heard two knocks.  
“Who’s there?”  
“The keeper,” answered Ennadun, “I brought stew.”  
“Why?”  
“I don’t like cucumbers. Maybe you could eat it in my stead.”  
_What a twisted logic._  
He didn’t even wait for the Ilythiiri to vocalize her decision; one second and he entered the room. She could smell the meal almost immediately. _Damn, it’s been too long since I ate. I can’t neglect it any longer._  
Viconia sat up. “How much for it?”  
“Nothing. Just eat it. I’ll have more bread for supper. I love bread. What do you like?”  
She took his clay bowl, “I don’t really have a preference.”  
“Oh.”  
She drank carefully until there was a half of a portion left. The cucumbers had been grated, so there wasn’t much to chew.  
The elf sat on the floor and fixed his glasses.  
She wiped her mouth. “Why are you like this? Your brother, you… Other innkeepers only agreed to lend their rooms because I’ve been accompanied by surface dwellers. Now I’m alone. And yet, you let me in.”  
He didn’t miss a beat, “My brother says the outcast drow are different from the drow of the Underdark. I should not pay attention to your looks but to your behaviour.”  
She counter-attacked, “I could be a spy.”  
“You’re not a spy.”  
The certainty in his voice made her look at him. Children can tell many things: what kind of behaviour results in praise, and what kind brings punishment; when a parent fakes a smile; when a parent lied about ingredients in the dinner. But to tell apart a spy from a genuine person? Spies are masters of their craft. They befriend targets, even seduce them. How can he tell?  
“You’re not buying food. You’re not taking a bath. I heard you cry in your room. You’re not a spy.”  
She blinked. “Fair enough. Good stew, by the way. You’re missing out.”  
“You think? Then, maybe you do like cucumbers. That’s a… pre _re_ fence, right?”  
She puffed from amusement. “Ah, sorry, this isn’t funny. Try again.”  
“Preflence?”  
“Preference.”  
“Oh, pref-rence. Preference. I got it now. Preference. You do have a preference. Preference.”  
She repressed annoyance inside her, “Mmmaybe practice that word somewhere else.”  
“Alright,” Ennadun stood up and left. Walking away, he continued at the hall, “Preference. Madam has a preference. I have a preference.”  
Viconia resumed drinking the stew.

In the early evening, the dark elf left the inn and found her way to Veteran’s Veracity. The store was illuminated with eight oil lamps standing on wall fixtures.  
The orc merchant recognized the cleric, “Aah, welcome. Has your friend succeeded at summoning a cat?”  
Viconia lowered her eyes, “She did. She’s got some kind of wild breed; it looks a bit like a tiger… A bit like lynx… Can’t tell what exactly it is, but I wouldn’t really call it a cat. Not that it matters; Vissenvaib adores it the way it is.”  
“As long as it’s not aggressive towards your party. So, how can I help you tonight?”  
“I remembered that you sell armour. I…” she pointed to her leather pauldron and gently tapped it twice, “I would need something better to wear. Perhaps a chainmail shirt with sleeves.”  
The merchant hummed. “May I take measurements of your limbs?”  
“Yes.”  
They unrolled a linen measuring tape. Effortlessly did they wrap it around Viconia’s arm, forearm, thigh, and calf, despite using one hand. Each measurement was written down in a notebook lying open on the counter.  
“Now, I need your assistance when measuring your chest.”  
“Will do.”  
The Ilythiiri fixed the tape to a correct position.  
“Deep inhale. …mhm, thank you.” They noted two measurements for her chest. “Lastly, your neck. Unless you’d like a matching helmet for the set.”  
“Er, yeah.”  
The merchant nodded. After they gathered all measurements, including Viconia’s head, they hastily drew a horizontal line in the notebook. “Have you ever taken the Test of Six Heroic Abilities?”  
She lost her balance and trotted sideways. “Why… do you need it?”  
“To match and customize a perfect armour. To prevent your skills from getting hindered, and to shield your weaknesses. I shan’t spread the information; in fact, this page, with your data, will be ripped and given to you to destroy.”  
She wiped her forehead. “So, um… I took the drow equivalent, the Eight Trials. But I converted the results, so I know how well I fare on your scale.”  
“That makes things easier. Alright. How high is your Strength on the scale?”  
“Ten.”  
The orc turned her eyes to Viconia and examined her arms. “I wouldn’t say so. Only ten?”  
“Yes.”  
They walked to a weapon stand and picked up a two-handed war hammer with a massive head. They allowed the upper part to fall on the floor and turned the handle upwards. “Lift it as high as you can.”  
The cleric gripped the handle at the height below her waist and tensed all muscles. With a grotesque frown, she raised the weapon five inches above the floor. She tried to slide her hand lower, to raise the hammer even higher, but the handle slipped and the blunt head bashed.  
“See? You’re stronger than Ten. I’d give you twelve.”  
She coughed as the merchant put the weapon away. “Thaanks?”  
“Solid Twelve. That opens more possibilities for your armour. Now, tell me your Dexterity.”  
“Nineteen.”  
“Great. Gotta take advantage of that. And Constitution?”  
Silence.  
“I don’t need all six, madam, just Constitution.”  
She forced herself to reveal it, “Eight.”  
They didn’t write it down. “What is your role in your party?”  
“I heal.”  
“You _heal_ ,” they looked into her eyes, “And you ought to keep on healing, madam. Obviously, nothing is guaranteed in a battle, no matter how many treaties are signed. You’re able to defend yourself, and that’s enough. But never occupy a front line.”  
“But…” she began.  
“I know. We all know here in Neverwinter. Trilfae told us.” They stepped closer. “You have done all you were capable of, and even more than you were able to. You survived in the Underdark and on the surface. It took effort, pain, luck; but you’re here. You live. And I say, you don’t have to prove yourself to your old community anymore. You don’t have to cling to your old methods. I shall design the best armour for your abilities. However, I request that you stay a healer, not a battle cleric.”  
Viconia covered her mouth with her hands. She sensed something in them, something reassuring, stabilizing, encouraging. A kind of feeling she has never felt, thus couldn’t give it a name.  
“I know what I’m saying. While I’m not from the Underdark, there was a time when I lived with wrong people and they made me believe I had to prove myself to them because of my arm. But it wasn’t just one trial; they never stopped, never, ever stopped, and they buried me in my own body. Then, I listened to Trilfae. I dug myself out; ditched those unthankful shitheads; moved here and opened this very store. And for the first time in years, I felt relief. And I wish you that you also find that state of relief in your life.”  
She shut her eyes and rushed to the merchant, weeping into their robes.

Walking along an empty street, wearing a barbute, a brigandine with mail sleeves, pauldrons, faulds, chainmail pants, and plate poleyns, holding her long shield, securing her enchanted mace onto her belt, Viconia was pondering how to approach Vissenvaib back at Aribeth’s house. She used to apologize to her superiors at Arach-Tinilith, never to commoners of the surface. Or should she thank her for all the patience?

At the opposite end of the mood axis, the shrieking stuffed squirrel jumped on the counter, as two drunk customers engaged in a brawl.  
The half-elf mage rushed to the strangers, “Oi! You two! Sleep!”  
They succumbed to the spell. Their companions picked them up from the floor and left the tavern.  
Vissenvaib returned to her table and fixed her eyes on Ajantia. The paladin was finishing their meal.  
“Tell me… How much do Helmites know about Murdane?”  
“Depends on a Helmite. I only know oral stories, while priests study her actions and speeches in great detail.”  
“So, there are more stories than that song we’ve heard today?”  
“There are seventeen ballads with their authenticity confirmed by the priests. They’re usually shared in Cormyr, Chessenta, Sembia, you know, around the Sea of Fallen Stars.”  
“Mmmhm, now, Murdane sewed, right? Or rather, weaved?”  
“Not always, but yes, she was a weaver. She started as a rabbit shaver and then became a shearer.”  
Her face widened. She raised her hands, with fingers spread, at the level of her shoulders. She shook them and clapped once.  
Ajantia tensed their eyebrows, “Wha’?… Vissen?”  
She realized her behaviour looked out of place. “Don’t mind me.”

In front of Aribeth’s house, Kagain tripped on a stair.  
“Dang it. Maybe that _was_ one mug too much. Mind the stairs, gals!”  
Ajantia stopped and waited for Branwen to place her foot on the first step. But the human cleric only kept waving her leg, unable to calculate in her mind where she should move it. Imoen passed the duo, singing a vulgar song she had learned back at Candlekeep, “«I shall, for thou slept around, cast myself into the sea; but nay, I shall not drown, for I can swim fucking perfectly!»”  
So did Vissenvaib, although she sang quietly, “«I shall, for thou slept around, throw myself before a cart; but nay, it shan’t run me down, for it’s on a different road, thou twat.»”  
As she entered the building, Kagain tapped on her arm, “Look, V! Look who’s back.”  
She saw Viconia in the kitchen, still wearing the brigandine, but with the barbute taken off and rested on the table. Her hair was smooth, clearly combed; her pose stoic; her face calm.  
The half-elf raised her eyebrows, “Whoa.” Then, she remembered why the dark elf was gone. “Uh. I reckon that you’ve meditated.”  
“Yes.”  
“And?”  
“I should have healed Branwen and let her fight instead of me.”  
She nodded and inhaled at the same time. “There we go. Now, the cockatrice is dead, we’ve caught it. But tomorrow we’re meeting Desther and searching for other beasts. It will be a fresh start for you in our party.”  
Viconia smiled, “I’m glad.”

In the middle of the night, the mage woke up as humans do; she found her cat atop her chest, being careful not to squish her boob.  
“What is it, Kitty?” she whispered.  
The companion rested like a sphinx. Vissenvaib reached for their soft head. When they began purring, she attempted mimicking the sound, but it resulted in “mrrr-rrrrr-mrrrr-mr-rrrrrr,” because she found it difficult to roll the consonant continuously.  
And then.  
Kitty snickered.  
The half-elf stopped. Her thoughts froze.  
The feline being muffled themselves with their paw and licked it thrice, pretending to bathe.  
Her lips wry, Vissenvaib spoke, “I think there’s more to you than being a Kitty.”


End file.
